High Tide

The maroon crest curling in demolition

Gives voice to the crashing plate/

The roaring of a ruptured rock face.

Its furious burst & simmering decline

May hold the rhymes to a future verse.

But I won’t herald distant times;

Only the wide lapis lazuli plain &

The crest kissing my toes like

Bowing heads of the faithful.

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Of Life Itself

Of Life Itself

Sharp, beastly shrilling

of mopeds & motorbikes,

pungent whiffs of weed,

streams of patois on the bus–

3 senses of life itself.

Drive by

Drive by

Candles on

urban street corner

Youth, age––?

 

 

Wilderness Abstractions

Wilderness Abstractions

Again I trudge through

porcelain drifts and razor

blade flakes hacking down

my bitter Spring prophecies

Again the nuances of this

defiant New England season

stimulates consciousness with

abstractions, contradictions,

awakenings, misplacements.

Again I see social analyses

feeding the energies of class struggle

within the bleak cyrogenic stalks

of slumbering trees.

 

 

Eros 3: Red Matter

Red Matter

Beloved,
where would we stand
In a mystic, cosmic sense?
‘Cause I know The Almighty
altered the universal order
To rotate your life around mine.
Fine, the interstellar gyrations
that levitate our hearts in synch
didn’t move so smoothly.
There had to be space-splitting
combustions of core wounds
before our orbits could align again.
Only then could our bodies sing
a spontaneous duet in the stars,
charting endless chords of celestial
lineages across the dimensions.

Everything comes undone

Everything comes undone

Everything comes undone sometimes.
The center can not hold itself;
keep from dancing with abandon
like eloped lovers in the rain
rebelling with boisterous discretion
in these perplexing times.
Everything comes undone sometimes.
Meaning loses clarity,
reason has no claws.
What tears apart inside
is that question of being:
where Solace of Self lies.

Complex Midas

 

Complex Midas

Disembodied wealth
hangs from us
like ribbons of flesh
from a carcass of dreams.
Working hands impregnate
the unconscious soil,
spawning visions of grandeur
that spin like Saturn’s rings
around our psyches––
constricting & releasing
constricting & releasing.
We all yearn to possess
our forefathers’ prosperous fruits––
that ripe produce of the vine
whose intoxicating nectar
grants us the material strength
of a thousand golden suns
fueling us with the scorching warmth
of the Complex Midas and all its virtues.
But from the abyss of riches past
a sage voice will call:
“Don’t think you have it all!
For though the ancient touch of Kings
can make you stand proud and tall,
A fool with money will always fall.”

Postulations

 

Postulations

Waking up,
whole body sketched
on the drawing board
of The Real,
midway between
the imaginary and symbolic orders,
I see a face in the naked glass,
skin tapping against
the pane of rationality,
eyes hollowing out
what can be explained.
A closer look reveals
the figure to be a mirror-me
sending peace and greetings
from What Is To Come.

Where every nation, race,
tribe and tongue professes
one almighty faith and lives
in peace and harmony.

Staring at the reflection
of his moonlight gaze,
I follow the slopes that edge
toward the apex of being,
where every idea,
concept and theoretical notion
faces its day in the court
of critical inquiry.
Moving as a break-less train,
encumbered by the shadowy
pillars of my own fatigue,
I reach for the window,
to touch that face and grasp
something snagged
between past, present and future.
When with a grin and two-fingered
salute that splits the sphere of reason
to polar ends, the figure fades
into the realm of nothing
leaving What Remains
to satisfy
my yearning
for the comforts

of reality.

Head rushing; head rowing on the Charles River

Head rushing; head rowing on the Charles River

I’ve barely been to Roxbury, Matapan,
South Boston’s Irish Town.
I have not thought to stop like some
lost tourist to compare and contrast
features, challenges, triumphs,
hopes, dreams… lives.
Why?
The head rush of race and classism rushes
like the unlikely chance of a Charles River flood –
a flood that slugs lethargically downtown,
uptown, low-town
leaving the debris of history behind:
Civil rights marches, police confrontations,
bus and school rulings, blood spilt.
I see it, I live it all in my zoned out
head rush dreams.
It’s the Head of the Charles Regatta
and I’m an illegal participant,
head rowing against the tides of bad old days
I pray not to meet again.
I’ve barely been to Matapan, Roxbury,
South Boston’s Irish Town.
But for the sake of similar differences in this city
and nation’s story, I’d like to visit them all again.

Are we not men?

 

Are we not men?

Living, breathing skeletons,
flesh and skin with salty, sharp
liquids transversing through
multi-layered vessels, arteries, veins.

We’re alive as any living creature,
awakened with environmental sense,
bound to habits and the pressing desire
to survive and thrive.

Yet are we not more shell than man?
Killing and consuming with no soul,
pillaging without reason,
walking in a spirit-dead existence?

For unlike man, a shell knows its place.
Emotionally frozen, it’s deaf to the godly
conscience that surpasses all barbaric traits.

It sees even the most pervasive deeds
as natural, which even men born
into sanity painfully replicate.

Are we not men?
Are we not shells?
Are we not shell-men?