I Prefer Not To.
your words
are the sinister fire
that burns
truth
through holes
in my head
with thoughts
that forever conspire
to spurn the unheard
consequence
i look to your kingdom
of ire
to learn
of my lost relevance
with hope
i may someday
retire
from churning
this latent lament
the days
of conflict
and desire
were earned
but would never
be spent
this love
once so fervent
and dire
returns now
to fine
sediment
[Photo: Mary Pickford]
i awaken
into dream
the essence so precise
a place
i know so well
it seems
this feeling
permeates every aspect
of my being
where i can
never again
expect
to be
time has turned
forbidden
spurned
forlorn
for the life
of me
i cannot
discern disparity
alas
my conscious mind
soon finds
the glass rift
as what was once
life shifts
the past
sight amiss
all is ripped
from this fervid grasp
in that fleeting
final frame
of perfect
freedom
forsaken
fragments of lovers
burned fast
fall to ash
in this charcoaled heap
that lay afoot
this exterior
excoriated
by the nails
of their failings
but none can impale
for I only have lived
in the aftermath
of a restless memory
forged in a dream
i hazard to ponder
if love had ever surpassed
the scorching
of this insolent soul.
but all I have
beheld
is mounds of
rubble
pounding
plotting
persisting.
the sea now beckons
the sanctity of sleep
on her floor
of forgiving
through this channel of tears
from sorrows impounded
imprisoned
in irons
of ivory’s irony
inconsolable
impenetrable
in spite of ourselves
a splintered perfection
o, splendorous winter
let us seep into the silent spring
to sing assuagence
and sate the urgent seas
with tempest
perhaps none dare
to venture
beyond
the comfort
of the semen
stained illusion
that warps
their precious
window to the world
to bear
witness
to the scandal:
the
“original sin”
of woman;
creating;
mankind.
avoidant
that’s what they
call it
the truth
is that i’m terrified
scared
out of my wits
afraid
of the horrors
that await
in the unknown
abyss
of uncertainty
where all of my dreams
go to die
the term
“avoidant”
to me
implies
willfulness
the only thing
i so desperately wish
to avoid
is this
pray this memory
tell no lies
in light
of truth
since shone
to strip me
of my last reprieve
pray not
these newly fallen whispers
speak ill
of our erstwhile tales
should they unravel
all my world
would vanish
into despair
for every sinuous
sorrow felled
arose
a sanctuary
that once
we shared
to dare
such dreams expire
but time
forever
radiates
in solemnity
and thus i am fraught
with this aching moor
of that which
i can never
come to mourn
Some poems seem to reflect the very essence of our being on an intimate level. This is the poem that I most relate to. The poet, Ray Smith, also happens to be the grandfather of my primary source of inspiration in my personal life. My wife, Mira Meunier. Ray was a poet who enlisted in WWII to serve as a combat medic. He fought in several of the most noted battles, one of which was the battle of the bulge. It’s interesting to see the marked change that took place in his poetry from the period before his deployment to the period after which he had experienced the horrors of warfare. This transformation can be observed in the poems published by Poetry Magazine during those years found here https://www.poetryfoundation.org/search?q=ray+smith&refinement=poetry_magazine&page=2 for anyone who might be interested in reading them. He would become a decorated soldier, having risked his life on numerous occasions to save his comrades. Speaking of comrades, in a vulgar display of cruel irony, he was blacklisted for being a communist after having served his country. He spent the remainder of his years serving as the library director at several universities and served twice as poet laureate for the state of Minnesota.
with time erodes the roads of hope
as seconds pass without distinction
wedged between the hourglass
in retrospect, a stranger’s fiction
e’er beholden to the past
shackled by fear’s ersatz depictions
diligently deconstructed
prone to dubious perceptions
doled out in fervid procession
sold out to our indiscretion
futures nigh belie the burdens
of reflective introspection
corporate chains restrain our choices
subjugated minds and voices
commandeering our convictions
volunteering our volition
fostering the hour’s dissension
lost inside our own dimensions
drifting states of lone diremptions
kissed by fate’s unknown afflictions
wistful days of rumination
stripped of our only salvation
dripping death with indignation
listless breaths of consternation
consciously resigned enslavement
viciously maligned by deviants
clamoring to hide misconduct
how can i but not give a fuck
the struggle
to release my fears
from shackled shrills
of obscene silence
pulling further
down with every second
thought since spent
vile undertows
that know me well
spell out this hell
in heavy throes
below
where phantom prose
commiserates lament
each word
wafts ever wayward
in dissociative dimensions
obscured by the illusion
borne of urgency
forgone
enthralled by conscious calls
of a conspicuous collusion
that subdivide the lies
my conscience cries
to stay afloat
that i require
the fundamental sating
trapped in spurned epistles
e’er belies
what blissfully denies
my ignorance
which writhes on
muted shores
secluded
hopelessly exiled
as i succumb
to numbness
of my solitude’s descent
Max, or Not 
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