Goldleaf

They bring me gilded things in prickly hands
and stroke my spine with vomit lines
that chill and daze in wonder.

There lies a loneliness in that embrace
that nothing buys and nothing frees;
it only shuts what’s empty.

What messengers have bloody rapier eyes
and skin like frozen lunar plains
that shroud the sun a moment?

I know what makes the blinded spirit bleed
when reaching out for greater things
to come and bloom within it.

Unfold the cage they’ve made of trembling arms;
not all that grasps will bind you down.
Put down your empty boxes.

Come fill me up with something I can feel
before my stomach shrivels up
in one great gush of hunger!

Damn Beautiful

Damn beautiful!
The rain falling so sublime
Idle chatter of demigods
Soft blanket and quiet repose
Glimmer of street lights
Reflecting on asphalt puddles
Serenely chaotic
Sensuous lullaby
Feel of comfortable omniscience
Regurgitated silence
King of man
Bane of nature
Fulfilling my existence at rest
Contemplating unbeknownst
Changing the world
Swiftly, deftly, now.

The Milk Maid

Have I forgotten myself?
Swept up in a delicious delirium of playful love?
Is it folly or future?
Am I fearful or inept?
What step to take or path to cross I know not
I cannot know for sure
I must put my neck to the guillotine and hope for mercy
Ann Boleyn is not me
I am Sir Francis Drake
Defender of the English country by sea
Destroyer of the Spanish Armada
How can a milk maid make me weak at the knees?
She is so fair
So joyful
She makes me happy like no Spanish galleon ever could
I would fight ten thousand fleets to see her smile
To feel her warm embrace
To touch those soft lips
Such tenderness the sea will never know
But I can know for a moment and it would be enough
A glance of affirmation would suffice as my heart yearns for sweetness
The sea has battered me and left my tongue dry and salty
It thirsts for a water of life that she only can give
A milk maid coming with her pail
I shall not wait for meat
Milk will suffice

Trifles and Reticence

To disannul a single trifling word,
How many fervent lines must I compose?
A seed of love, in foolishness interred,
Would take a hundred thousand to disclose!
A pittance were a hundred thousand lines
If they could free this spirit’s eloquence;
A field of seed lies dormant and repines
Beneath the dryness of my reticence!
A hundred thousand lines were not enough
To coax each pious seedling into view,
But once we’ve gathered all the fruit thereof,
I know I’ll find another line or two.
(For that in which the shattered sunlight shines
Is surely she who streaks the sky with lines.)

I Am Corban

My plea may be to take me as I am,
But not because I cleave to mortal flaw;
My vices to expunge, my faults to damn,
I’ll venture forward when your waves withdraw.
I’ve feared your eyes—not shying from reproach,
But only the reflection I would find.
This ocean path is daunting to approach,
But only dearth and darkness lie behind.
Myself to kill, myself to recreate,
Myself to lose and gain where you reside:
I’ll brave your rift—myself to consecrate—
And smile upon you from the other side.
For loving eyes must dare to rise and see
The image of the man who ought to be.

Ex Nihilio

There is an answer in your smile,
but questions die like hydra heads--
or blooming things
that spill their seeds
when picked.

If I'm your light,
your world's too dark.

But how can I deny
that nothing shines like you
when all you see is me?

You know that I deny
the nonexistence of the gleam.

So there's an answer to your smile.

Humility and vanity
can blame each other all they want.
I only see one tide of life
in cutting hands that quake to hold.
I only know that shadows flee
when you make wonders of my wondering.

Mired in Progress

Drifting, floating, yielding to the current
A steady push of ticks and fluid flashes of dim light
Opulence comes and goes as does eventfulness, usefulness
Wallowing or wading through sandy breezes of mind masturbation
A trickle of truth and a glimpse of glory fading as the sun retires
"We must live for the moment," they say, and fill our calenders to the point of bulging and explosion
Well get me a belt, suspenders or a bottle of laxatives
We are not meant to be so full of this mindlessness
There is more to be said for the calm reticence and meticulous craftiness that an idle mind and a patient nap bring
So I wallow. But mired in progress. The kind that the world cares little about.