decoupage of dream's dalliance

cramped in the close quarters of my logic
there's a painting party going on.

but i've brought some shellac to seal
the tender places, the cut out picture postcards
of memories i saved, savor, slave over so carefully.
their disconnected connections splayed upon my walls.

i should paint over them, i know.
i should cover them over with a nice, bright white.

but the colors, the patterns, they
are a blueprint on the bones of my house.

they are my proof, my logical proof of illogical theories.
my picture postcards of impossible possibilities.

the decoupage of dreams' dalliance
dances upon these walls, definitively,

the cogent evidence of our coup de coeur.


--bruised orange

winter music

this water is a sleeting ice falling hard,
needle pricking upon my earth.
the sting and bite hits the frozen soil, drills it.

did you think warm spring showers were all there would be?

winter offers her own song.


--bruised orange

choking on the outcome

i've locked away my love
behind steel bars of remorse
(i forgot my pen was in your pocket)
and now i've swallowed the key.

muse sits and laughs at my predicament.

i stand against the cold stone walls
of a prison cell i never meant to back into,
wondering about the cruel hands of fate
and other such nonsense and predictable phrases.

phrases that make me want to vomit.

i stick my fingers down my throat and gag,
wretched heart, too full in my mouth,

that copper penny flavor,
this poor man's meal.


--bruised orange

flowers spring up where they will

i am a leaky faucet.
the crescent wrench of control
tightens,

righty tighty

but i drip, drip, drip.
a stronger hand has gripped my handle.

lefty loosy, let it flow

my dripping waters spill into your ears,
where earth flower seeds fell in late summer sun

oh, quick! quick! knock out the dirt
somebody call a plumber

blossoms like these
won't survive the coming frost.

blossoms like these
will make your head explode.


--bruised orange

something's brewing

cooking pots simmer on the back burners of my mind
steaming, steaming

wordy vapors rise,
spreading syllables across my bone-dry ceiling

letter clouds are gathering

i stand below,
head raised,
mouth open,
hoping to catch the rain of inspiration


--bruised orange

and fragrant blooms the jessamine

you wandered into my lonely place and held my hand,
taking my heart and singing into the wind.
we went like that, you and i, for a time,
feeling sunlight upon our eyelids;
we held laughter in our palms.

and we walked on, together, you and i,
the kiss of moonlight throbbing in our temples;
we felt stardust powdered across our shoulders.

the fragrant jessamine on the bowered paths
led us to the garden wall. how high and tall,
this garden wall! we thought to rest a while there,
our backs settled against cold stones of resistance.

we dreamed to ride again the moonbeams
and float away on silvered wisp of clarity.
we mused the moment of sunlight streaming
through open eyes, a fate eternal, and entwined.

and fragrant blooms the jessamine
upon the bowered paths.


--bruised orange

love is patient

stick your head in the sand, ostrich.

when you finally decide to come up for air,

you will find me sitting beside you,

stroking your feathered neck.


--bruised orange

cycle the waters

My green river flows into your blue ocean.

Swiftly now, as the rain falls down.

Into your salty waters i gladly spill,

and our waves danced upon the shores of eternity.

Our vapors rise ever skyward.

Your blue ocean falls into my green river,

and on we flow, together.


--bruised orange

squeeze

i want to ask you,
why is the orange peeling?
which is the pulp?
how will the zest be
grated?

and what essence, once distilled,
will i find?


juice runs down my chin,
and i am sticky.

my tongue, numb and tingly, together.

i want to spit it out.
i want to devour it whole.


--bruised orange

susurrant sighing

susurrant sighing


sadness settles on this sandy shore.

suffocating,

song of silence.

on blocking (unblocking)

i cannot seem to write anymore.

gone, the days of furious penning
that delivered a trail of thoughts
to your door.

now, my inkwell is full of air
and dried crumbly scrapings
of purple berried residue.

and this paper? yellowed onion-skinned
husk of memory, too flimsy to withstand
the heavy strokes of my pen.

no, i cannot seem to write anymore.

here, thought floats through my head.
i play snatch and grab, clutch at nothing.

swimming, swimming words,
a wispy film before my eyes.

in the stillness born

this music plays on and on,
and the melodies i hear are the
sweetest taste upon my tongue

i kiss the pen that sings to me
and embrace the lover who
whispers stardust into my ear


--bruised orange

Bankrupt

Today is a hollow day.
I am a shallow voice
in a tin cup.

I rattle and clang.

I am five copper pennies
wanting to add up to more
than a nickel.

Brother, can you spare some change?


--bruised orange

within

listen,

you, who are of my heart
you, who still the breaking waves upon my shore

i am but a scratchy grain of sand,
yet i knit the pearl of your longing

crack the oyster shell you cling to
and know your beauty

see that your heart's desire
has been within you all along


--bruised orange

human folly

misunderstanding flows, like beer on tap
and as we drink it down, pint after pint
all reason is spilled onto the table, wiped up by the dirty bar mop
that stinks of yesterdays brew

the proprietor of this establishment
stands at counter, smiling his knowing smile

that sadness in his eyes which can only come
from seeing pantomimes like this one play out before him
on every night of his long, long career


--bruised orange

here lies love

here lies love

within each murmuring whisper
of every question

in the silence of dawn

born of everything that can be
and each moment that ever was

it pours forth
and flows through

it is you
it is me

it is


--bruised orange

and i dig, i dig

and already i see the lay of the land before me, all it will bring
i travel up this mountainside, for what else can i do, but move along

the cold fear grips my head and leaves my hands bloodless, frozen upon the reins
and i dig, i dig the spurs of my resolve into this steady steed

to this place i go now, this hot burning land where all my anger dwells
and the music there screams my name, screams my complacency

i train my gaze upon the horizon of my freedom
and i dig, i dig the spurs of my resolve into this steady steed

here be my dragons, and their hot, fetid breath will scorch my vapid plain


--bruised orange


Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final
― Rilke

there are mysteries that defy attempts to explain

ah, i've been enjoying Rumi lately. His work speaks straight to my heart



where words leave us sore lacking,

silent heart language perceives

~~~~~~~~~~

listen, now, to the murmuring,

let quiet knowing fill you




--bruised orange

this shell is for you

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
its surging depths, a frightening display

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
tide's pull would have me drowned

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
breathless within its fathomless measure

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
but you may hold me to your ear
and hear it still, and hear it still.

whispering, whispering
(for who can contain an ocean?)


--bruised orange

to sound the depths

within a single letter
of a single word
of a single phrase
of a single line
of a single verse
of a single heart

there lies enshrined
all the stars of the
heaven of understanding

what mysteries there are
enfolded within all of creation

how many the parallels
that may be drawn

how deep and wide
flows this river of
connection

how vast this ocean
of remembrance
into which i plunge


--bruised orange

o, to weep

o, to weep
were i to cry the tears of a thousand eyes
my lamentations would not bring me relief
even as this salty lake broke dams and flooded
the valleys of my homeland

o, to weep
would that the ocean's tide would break upon my shores
and tumble this shell in its depths, washing away the sands of my remorse
this alabaster heart, unable to crack open, and spill


--bruised orange

liquid truth

i hold my mind up to the light,
and turn it this way and that,
examining the cracks,
peering into it,
checking its clarity.

i can stand this way,
outside of myself,
and say 'this is a clear mind',
'there are cracks,
but nothing too serious,
nothing that can't be mended'

but my mind is a tricky thing.
it breaks glass.
it slips and oozes through my fingers,
falls to the floor,
spills.

liquid truth stains the carpet of my interior.
no spot remover can take this blemish away.
and i cannot just leave it there on the floor for all the world to see.

i'm down on my knees, scrubbing and scrubbing through the night,
but liquid truth just moves on down the hallway.
it is mercury, skittering away from my frantic hands.

all the while, my mind sits in the corner and laughs at my futility, recording everything on film.

news at 9.


--bruised orange

everywhere

if your love were but a song's whisper upon my heart,

i would hear you again and again

in every tree and stone and cloud,

in each letter, of every word, of every poem.

also, probably in those maddening instruction manuals
written by people whose native language is not my own.

you know the ones i'm talking about.


--bruised orange

i hold fast the cord

answers come where quiet stillness lay,
when love born near stars
rushes through my veins,
surges through my heart,
and splashes on my page.

all the while, music feeds muse,
whispering truth, singing my soul.


--bruised orange

crack of breaking

and here it comes again,
the cold winter chill
darkness falls and icy
fingers are never far from me

feel the crack of breaking,
the aching of my need
taste the bitter sweetness
that makes the poet bleed

the rain sheets upon my window,
drives away my joy
breaking aching tasting
the loneliness of need


--bruised orange

Muse Wanders the Strange Landscape of Dreams

While driving the backroads last night, I cranked up my stereo
and let the music take me where it wanted to go.
I'd heard the songs before, but I began hearing a different tune.
Must've had earplugs in before. I drove on, and the music played me.
When I'd driven as far as I could, and lost myself completely down those roads,
I pulled over at some strange station I'd never seen before.  
I thought I'd sit a while there and rest, do a little reading from
the book I've been writing. Damn my eyes for seeing words there I'd never
read before.  My book was writing me, I had never said a word.  

I thought for a while about how you can wake up one day, hear the same song,
read the same words, and they tell you something you've never known before.
I realized then, I'd been driving with my eyes half closed.  
Then, as the sun came up, I saw with my naked eyes a strange landscape I had never seen before.

Road signs were everywhere.  One showed I was on I-9, another read, 'Welcome to Idaho'.
I heard gentle clouds roll on by, and felt alone in my wanderings.
I saw paint blistering off the walls of some hotel, and wondered who would save me.
I thought about wicked games,and felt accused. I saw crossroads, up ahead,
with a honky tonk on one side, wanted to go inside and order a case of finest wine.
I felt so alone, sitting in my rudderless boat (you know how dreams can go).  

Then I looked up, saw a man standing at the crossroads
with a golden hammer in his hand.  I wondered if i knew this man,
and wanted him in my boat with me, to sail on the uncharted seas.
I wanted to drown in a deep blue bottomless pool with him.  Then I wanted to
accuse him, for walking into my dream, for standing in the middle of my aloneness.

I looked up at the sky (it was night again, as dreams go) and saw the
stars in the sky.  I wondered if the stars were real, or painted on
some false ceiling.  I wanted to climb a ladder and break through,
to find true.  I wanted to tear down the veils that kept me from
knowing all the secrets of the universe, to burn up the clouds
that hid the sun.  Then I wondered again if the sun was already
shining, if my rudderless boat was being guided by the soothsayer
of dreams.  And I wanted to know if this dream was a nightmare, just a picture
show, or some prophetic vision.  

I felt pushed and pulled, with winds blowing a strong gale, and wanted to know if they blew from
the east or the west, but I could not tell, I'd dropped my compass miles back.
I wondered what the man was thinking, if he saw the same strange landscape.
I wondered if he had driven me here, or if we had sailed here together, our backs to one another.
I turned my radio on again, but only heard static, and wished that I could find the perfect song,
to express exactly the strangeness of this tale, to sing the truth.

I wondered again if I was dreaming or awake, if my ears
were hearing the real music in songs, if my eyes were reading
lines as they were written, or if I was still asleep, only dreaming.


Sometimes, when you wake up, you just
want to go back to sleep, and dream a little longer.  And sometimes
you think you've woken up, but you are still dreaming.  How do
you know the difference?  How can you ever tell? And where is
a good soothsayer when you need one?  

I'm still wondering.


--bruised orange