Light the way

Any instinct that we had for the big forever
and the stupor of eternal salvation is damned.

We can't wake up from the dream of lust
that we write again and again in the sand.

Any light that we see in the distance
pales against the shadow of selves left behind.

We dare not portray any more tension
in the balance of this life that awaits.

The politic of cut and paste revolutions
will drown us out.

The passion of trump and trample emotions
will kill the noise of tomorrow.

The piety of formless masters and traitors
will erase the words you write here.

Will you wait here or move along to another?
Will you linger on or dare to cross the border?

I'll love you either way.
I'll make the move to light the way.
I'll not cry when you do not sway.
I'll not fear when you do not follow.

Bone to flesh

I brought tears through the front door
for the last time in the moment that counted.

She stained the floor with our proxy of
mixed paintings and morbid callouses.

All erased without mention or intonation
or a sense of longing for some other form.

These are the gracious stereotypes we employ
from fractured homes of steel inbreeding.

I came to know you when this was all over
and I bore the thought to distant, everlasting rivers.

Will we float on the miracle of pixie dust
or just make it to the door from whence we came?

And I'm just starting the dance floor roll call
and watching for the elastic crystal ball to fall
again.

I brought love hate relations through the eyes
of needles drawing blood in the room next door.

Here is the last thought, the one I'll always remember
here in the saddle of the nasty rumor that we invent.

Don't let the dreams of your fathers beget motionless
anthems your children will lose, bone to flesh.

Paternal instincts

Every day is a father's day,
Today, tomorrow, and yesterday. 
Not only is my child's love agape,
But so is mine for the world far and away. 

It is not the meter or the rhyme that matter,
But rather the purity of your selfless river. 
So let not this day be the culmination,
But just a precursor to this daily salutation:

"I love you, Dad."

Light on my doorstep

Light pours through the careless seams
That bound up the valley below my weakest dreams.
Light oozes out of the rocks
In the higher plains of life's political screams.

Is this the moment we've sought in the dark?
Is this the place I was next to you?
Did we make it together, through the
Social alms mixed with pop-star guitar solos
And bright stage lights?

A concert rages for those that lost
To those that gained an unceremonious
Upper hand, begging the question,
As light plays on my doorstep,
"Where do you stand?"

Wait for it

I held the last minutes in my hand, opened wide, and

showered the ground below with my timeless zeal.

Here in the motionless lake

we steal one last grain of sand

in the sand storm.

Is this all there is, replete with big screens

and temptations of rock stardom?

Plate after plate passes, and we tithe our

guilt to the summoner, bury our hands in

our common power to pray.

I held the last days in my heart, shuttled

here by the wind off the mainsail.

This is it, mentored by some force catapulted

from red clay and generous headwaters.

I held on. I held out for more.

I held out for more and nothing came

through the door.

Where did we put us?

Beat the drum with a hammer made of goldenrod

and settle the score, the ridges that run along my skin,

bright and blue, dark and cool.

Simple days were these, dear, when we had no one

but the two of us, callous but bittersweet struggles

right and true, smooth and full.

Dated pasts, in and out of me and you, know us not

here in the cordoned-off reality, dimpled satin faces

fight and bruise, soft like wool.

One and two and three and four, pit and pat on my brain

a solitary, painless drumbeat.

One and two and three and four, tear my fears away

this very last time.

My own angry birds

Fingers like laquer spindles tap

on the murky, wooden bench

of my life consumed of penalty.

Patterns of moldy bread and butter

spread before me in flatlines on

the poorest, ochre-colored floorboards.

Melody turned dirge and driftwood

pierce the cottage of my slumber,

waking me with a gentle nod and dagger.

Judge me not, for there is no crime

and no reason for commutation

here in the pastime of envy and ego.

Frame me like a strangled Montague

so that language and reason meander

but never collide on time.

Leave me here, not knowing or caring

where I am or what where means or

why solemn moments stream and

why angry birds scream.