Wand of Levant

slumber
of saffron
and fuschia
release me

beyond
the bleak desert wall
ceaselessly arid

desiccant seascapes
secluded by sand-chime

soft planes
prohibit
a treason
of privy

siphoning sweat
by the swelter
of swoon

only a midsong
of autumnal tertian

daring descrier
could fly by the borage

brandishing
brushed silhouettes
kissed with sopor

lulling the languishing
planet in spirals

petaline prosody

cistern imbrued

weft in wisteria
wand of Levant

let the Vellela wind
wend you my way

withhold
and i will
most willingly wither

awaiting
on solemn
shore’s wallow
awash

[image credit: Claude Monet]

As I

i thought about writing
a suicide note

what it will say
if anything

to whom it will be addressed
if anyone

what each person will think
if anything

most people
will never find out

alas
there is no cause for alarm

we are here

we are gone

i have no wish
to see the sun

i know what role this life permits me

only in death
is freedom found

i do not need to be remembered
to be free

. . .

i love you.

i love you like a dying star
loves a midnight sky
through eyes of innocence

the wrath of time’s restraint
it paints the moon
as i lay silent

casting off abandoned scars
and erstwhile sentiments unsung

in shadows of our truths untold

let me not spiral
into such hollow affectations

of this entropy transposed

so grave is its disparity
in remnants
left behind

written on walls
in exile unseen
surrendered

to the aftermath
unknown

with nothing
left
to say

we languish
in our broken idyll

so duly run its course

as i

Tales Untold

forced
into a crowded room

never
will that moment leave me

savagely
they barked their orders

all but one
was made to follow

unable
for reasons unknown

still
they beat him

heavy metal
tracers did surround his face

wailing
like a dog
in death throes

begging
for some form of mercy

slowly
it kept creeping toward me

his ever growing pool
of fresh blood

finally
it stopped

until they dragged him
to the room adjacent

ragged stewards
rushed in with mops

frantic to erase
the cold truth

blaring from the
windowed hallway

still
they struck him

struck him
still

never
was there any question

this man
had done nothing wrong

all that they had seen
was black

the color of his human flesh

for what it seemed
he surely passed

neither the first
nor the last

silent
is the call for justice

plastic badges
shine as gold

exacting
their will
at leisure

as black men suffer
tales untold

Hollow

this pithy endeavor

shadows of dust
masquerading through time

i looked away
laughing

returning
to barrenness

the warmth
of her touch

once
insisted eternity

how quickly
it vanished

seen
through open eyes

this sand
shifts beneath us

swallowing memories

until we are hollow

devoid
of our sentiments

i still walk beside her

footsteps
in spectral snow

when all
turned to nothing

and she was no longer

and i

left behind

[image credit: Odilon Redon]

Precipice

stranded
between the contrast
defining the moon

a face
e’er blazoned
to man

dark
and unseen

vibrant
and garish

either
is not
what it seems

Ode to Zechariah

long before light
cleft the heavens in twain
a movement
of manhood emerged

unlike the unsavory
dissidents prior
his was a station deserved

he fostered conviction
amongst the rapt populace
stoically instilling mindful revolt

fully apprised of philosophies spoken
unlike static sophists consisting of molt

fervent emotions born of empathy
ever consuming his radiant heart
salient locution so poignantly posed
lingered long after he bid to depart

tales of his august aplomb echoed through the vales
prose poised to avail the downtrodden denizens

parlance empowering dispelled compatriots
apposite to proletariat wards

forged in the fires of familial defect
stuttering sopor
societal ire

nonetheless, pwning the epic drum solo
from “too hot for teacher” when he was but twelve

not having given an “F” he sought “T”
and tempered his mind with the breadth thus required
of the scant few i regard as elite
he is one by whom i’m duly inspired

Deep within this tattered husk lies the hope
to someday avow this Marxist of a man
of every last tender kiss wrought by his words
intended for naught but to better this land

Missing

i am
overtaken

by desolate space

once warmed

by the presence
of a comrade
now absent

surrendered
to emptiness

pray not
this
vacant eve

Luminary In Her Dearth

adrift
amid the vapid bedlam

palliation sought
eluding

stinging mistral
stretching onward

unseen
through the looking glass

left
to bare futility

lorn
where languid life doth linger

mistress lost

the first
the last

as she alone
compelled the stars

to loom anew
the constellations

lucid whispers
shaped her lips

like lucent kisses
illustrating

dormant creed
of freedom’s virtue

solitary
heart-sworn wisdom

salvaged from a wonted way

of this frail earth
where only fools
and martyrs
of demented mind

stand to find
a disposition
sound of spirit

. . . listen –

for her’s is a legacy
of love

luminary
in her dearth

and presence
redefined

 

 

[image credit: Vittorio Zecchin]

Upon Consideration . . .

fuck you
for the thought you’re thinking

fuck your epic pompadour

fuck that smug look
on your fuck face

fuck your doppelganger dog

fuck your every breath you breathe

fuck whatever makes you happy

fuck the way your clothing fits you

fuck the timbre of your voice

fuck anyone desperate
or dumb enough to fall for your shit

fuck you
for not being bothered
by the fact that you’re a prick

fuck your “soul patch”
fuck your soul
fuck your lack thereof
fuck no

fuck the way your mouth moves
every time you make an utterance

fuck your feigned gesticulations

fuck you
just because

fuck the fact that you perceive
yourself as being above others

fuck your lack of self-awareness

fuck the way you mistreat women

fuck your racist undertones
you always try to justify

fuck your privilege
being of a magnitude superlative

fuck your pompous
omnipresent omnipotent arrogance

fuck your vapid elocution
fuck you for always guffawing

fuck your predisposed conclusions

fuck you for wearing “cologne”

fuck you for making me smell you

fuck your insincerity
fuck your insecurity
fuck your lack of verity
fuck your duplicitous nature

fuck you because “~Dashers, Dashers~”

fuck your fucking sweater-vests

fuck you for even existing

fuck you for not remedying it

fuck your parents
fuck theirs too

fuck them all
for never caring

wait a fucking minute, dude –

you too
were neglected

under slightly different circumstances

nonetheless

life had not afforded you
the proper chances

for the record
fuck my hypocritical
lapse in discretion

leading me to perpetrate
a most impetuous transgression

if you would excuse
my hideous affront to civil discourse

mayhaps you and i
could be the source
of one another’s recourse

[image credit: František Kobliha]

Petaluna Linger

awash
in coils of amber
umber

and slumber
as autumn awakens

a solemn breeze
seizes
lofty trees
in lucent columns

a gauntlet
of ambient umbra

born the republic
of czechoslovakia

briefly
a voice could be heard:
“call me ishmael”

forces of intrigue
colluded in union

to bring forth
a most inconsequential
kismet

through mistral moons
into mellow mons

from stumbled startings
to fallen ends

asterina anomala

sweetness
of a serene dawn

plush fur of eternal purr
fills my pillow
ever brimming

buffering
this astral seraphic
kitten cabal

[image credit: Ivan Bilibin]