Theater of Pain
Crouched low, lost
within the panache
of post-modern jungles ...
Where we carved out our spirits
into those wild and mischievous
creatures
Sacred adornments,
Masks that our hearts
wore to walk a plane that
few men believe
Recklessly stumbling into
the dream boutique ...
Where we moved amidst a
great gathering and scattering
of hats- And you grabbed a
gray beret, and stuck it on
your head side-ways
Aloud, you wondered and
wandered closer to me, like
a creature that had never
really known this world at all ...
"Do I look like an artiste?
Or perhaps a soldier of
both great and grave fortune?
Tell me what you see ..."
For in that which had begun
to be said in playful giggles,
turned close and tightly, like
a soul's pirouette upon that
bleak and lonely stage,
when every other dreamer
had left the theater
of pain
"You look beautiful," I said,
softening my sadness with a smile.
"I really don't believe that you
can help it, though."
A momentary experience,
where time rushed you through
one end to drag you out into
the middle of the next- And left
you there, wondering what to
do or say next ...
It is a feeling a helplessness
that we both shared, as
by night's end
we both had shed our masks
and thus, become mortal again
We slept through sunrise,
when I awoke first to stare
through that picture window
that captured the scene
of a city, recomposed
steel and stone that had
erased every natural vestige
of this place, and replaced it
with those
Near-sacred adornments,
those panache masks
that everybody wears, to
walk a plane that few
men will ever truly know
Recklessly stumbling into
a dream boutique ...
Where there moved a great
gathering and scattering of hats-
Watching on calmly as
the world outside seemed
to be desperately scrabbling
to find some sort of magic,
that hat that might transform
them into someone else ...
That perhaps, they might
become beautiful
I kissed your cheek
as I left, knowing that you
would know where to find me-
Should there come
a night, left too dreamless ...
That we might become
like imaginary children in some
newborn season of Eden,
before man had reinvented new gods
to replace the old, and changed
the ways of the world
into what he had come to
believe was his own
immortal image
All cities are mortal,
and only that which is mortal
shall remain here-
Long into that deep and
endless night when nothing
that mankind had ever dreamed
before shall survive the
new gods he had created
and served
I left her there, struggling
for sleep, dreaming about
the end of the world- again
She knows
where she can find me,
for I cannot come to her
unless she calls to me first
When the world has
left her too entangled and
unraveled; tied between
rage and pain ...
Feeling too helpless,
an immortal soul in an all too
mortal city, watching the
Sun when it seems still-
and knowing that it will
either rise or fall, for life
is restless and awkward
creature
Time is merely a measure
of motion and distance,
there is truly nothing on
either side of any given
moment
Memorae is merely
what the spirit collects,
and hope the fuel of
what motion the soul
must travel, in search
of some newborn season
of Eden, before mankind could
reinvent gods to replace
the old ones, and change
the ways of the world
into what he had come to
believe was his own immortal
image
When she wakes, alone ...
Watching the cracks as they
form in that living idol, clamping
her hands over her ears as she
can hear the children screaming ...
"THIS MUST BE PARADISE!!!" ...
"Please God, just let it be something real ..."
She hides her face
in her hands when she cries,
her arms wrapped tightly around her
chest, as if trying to squeeze
of keep something from moving
and settling too deeply inside of
her
And when there is no place
left to run or hide,
crouched low, lost
within the panache
of those post-modern jungles ...
Where she carved out our spirits
into what wild and mischievous
creatures she had dreamed to life
Sacred adornments,
those masks that her heart
wore to walk a plane that
few men have ever known
She has perfected the rites
and sacrifices of her own damnation,
something borrowed
from those e'er
crumbling books of
knowledge, wisdom, and
spells that can both conjure and
dispel any and every thing ...
For a moment,
where there is truly nothing
on either side of the measure
of motion and distance ...
She pleads with me not
to leave her there again,
as I wordlessly grab a black
veil and drape it over her
face
A fierce and angry kiss
left her lying breathlessly
amid a crumble of soft
blankets and pillows
Which was how she was found the next morn ...
All cities are mortal
in the theater of pain.
Ode Worn Cold Elements
(Subtitled: Tsunami)
Led by what I was last
left, dreaming myself
apart
Falling away into
those old places,
where mixed joys
infected the city
with neon and
ecstatic fireworks
that you can never
really follow all the
way ...
Back to earth,
for the fire vanishes long
before they ever come
near enough to catch
By dawn,
there is nothing left to
feel-
As, once more,
Hilton's Shangri-La
fades, ever more into
that Lost Horizon
and the subtle craft
of every other oblivion,
that somewhere distant
and sacred mountains where
mankind can pour all of
their most beloved memories
of what might have been,
and dreams of what could be
Where the dead are neither
lost, nor forgotten;
simply near enough to
touch again-
If only the heart remains
still long enough to see
what it had never wanted to
leave behind ...
Mother of what had
so long ago, disappeared
like tracks in the snow
Led by what I was last
left, dreaming myself
apart
Falling away into
those old places,
where mixed joys
infected the city
with neon and
ecstatic fireworks
that you can never
really follow all the
way ...
I watch them spill a fluttering
of fish into the aquarium,
That no one would ever pay to
see- To feed the sharks, whales,
and dolphins, and keep those
creatures alive ...
And yet from the fear-maddened
swarms released into the tank,
I sit and watch as one of those,
strangely seeming calm swims down
to near where I stand- towards
the pane of glass which keeps
our habitats apart
Staring at me, its mouth
moving soundlessly as the
rest of its kind dart and swim
to try to find some cover
It merely continues to stare
at me, its mouth moving as of
it were a blinking of an eye
If perhaps I couldn't explain
why I felt a sudden urge to try
to get it out of there, I might
have been able to survive the
swim, but not likely the sharks
that they kept alive ...
Because the people that came
would pay to see those, and no
one comes to see a herring
do anything that it can do-
Assuredly not stare back
at you ...
At first I thought it
might be angry, or sad;
if it could be truly accused
of feeling anything at all
or if it were merely my own
thoughts superimposed
upon a silly whim that a
fish might not ever be so simple
as it appears to us
It was only a fleeting moment
that I got to consider that
just maybe, he was studying me
as I was studying him
Where the pane of glass seemed
to keep us safe from one another,
I jumped a little ...
Neither of us ever saw the
shark coming
I walked away, out into
the last fleeting glimpse
of the day - Falling softly into
the dark hands of night
My pockets were full of
my own hands, clenched
together into a something like
a fist, though only to keep
some kind heat inside them
And eyes turned down towards
my feet ...
Trying to convince myself
that it never really mattered
Back to earth,
the fire vanishes long
before dreams ever come
near enough to catch
By dawn,
there is nothing left to
feel.
Flowers & Weeds
By the warm ash of a cold fire-
The bounty of moments,
a lingering glow;
I can hear some kind of peace calling me near.
I am alone to you now sweet memory, my dear old
friend-
For but some small glimmer and glimpse of who and what
I was before I came here.
With a flask of bitter-root and golden honey-
Lain on the cusp of old and new,
at the rim of the world-
Wrapped in this warm old coat of silence,
ghostly smiles possess me inside.
Drawn into that old Vestal flame of youth,
the heart of a child beating wonders-
Of jasmine, frankincense, and pearl.
That silly and precocious boy-
Stealing kisses from the lips of stone madonnas,
for the want of big-words.
The rosary beads of simple enchantments, each new step
deeper into two very different worlds.
Bliss is the laughter of a child,
playing free in the dandelion fields-
whose heart can yet discern the flowers from the
weeds.
I still dream of it sometimes-
The tears that stained the old pillow-cases
decorated
with clouds and clowns with things that didn't seem
fair.
Like gay-colored balloons that lose the ability to
float on the air
and slowly drift back down to earth.
I knew better how to cry then.
Though the Sun still shone and the dandelions still
grew-
they didn't seem quite the same anymore.
The maelstrom eroding away at the child's face-
Those faint lines still traced in words
laced in the innocent unknowing.
I wrote the things I refuse to say aloud,
for fear of such terrible magic-
but that I had come to fear it says enough.
It was that young and silly boy standing at the edge
of a grave, trying to figure out what never-again
really meant.
I learned to say my good-byes the hard way.
