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