to follow faeries

within twilights when spirit matches jeans-
smoke-soaked, dark-blue and faded
in stylized distress at elevated price-
i cry to cobain and meet him midway,
asking the worse of bullet and fame,
ignoring fem-fates that laced the dice.

we know we overglance the obvious-
the yang knifing yin,
the one-petal’d lotus flower,
the cross with no nails, removed,
rusted, sanguin-stained
and worn as jewelry for the skin, the eyes
pierced and piercing the irony of band names
hopeless with hope, singing merits of rage,
knowing without speaking,
dying without dying within waiting
to make a name, to make lead gold…
to buy new jeans…
smoke out the spirit
captured in moist lucent moonlight,
eclipsing golden-glow singers of fortunes lost-
all exchanged for resplendent eidola-
so clean and godless and perfect,
never hazy, never smoky, so clear.

but kurt tells me faeries aren’t to own
and the perfect ones all fly back home.
(follow?)

Death Grip

Everyday could be the last and
We must call her to keep her,
Else she might loose this world
From her sagely grasp
And follow the Shadows of her Ancestors
Into our unreachable Eternal,
A path she pursues with embrace with
Closeness of breath and naked breast
(For shame makes not the trip).
So we call to keep
Her holding on to this Earth,
Dreading the terrible fall from
Her venerable hand
Into a never-ending vortex
Past elemental fire
And slow swirling wind
Mixing us all back into ourselves,
Into a neo-nuclear soup
Beyond imagination, triggering
Well-familiar fear of unknown.

So we call out to her,
Praying tight grip on humanity,
Keeping her hand bound to us,
Never releasing, always here
To mother us.

Boxing up Holy Grails

“sing me a song,” I say.
tell me a bible story
with liars and lepers and locusts,
oh my – wounded pride.

calling spades everything but spades.
i can do it
i can do it
with my magic mind.
impossible?
i can do it
i can do it

revisit just a verse or two,
or skip to the good part, the chorus
of angels chained to my leg,
to each other, flying, crashing,
trumpeting the return
of whatever in hell we wait for
with hopes of heaven certainly drowned
in the isolation of 40-day rain.

tell me what i want to hear,
placate the emotions.
you can do it
you can do it
kill my rational side.
impossible?
you can do it
you can do it

sell my desires on the street corner,
sing your song for a dollar,
use my own name in vain,
play dress-up with demons
as preachers read them their fate.
read me the same.
too many maybes
in a world without change.
maybe you did it.
maybe you came.
maybe the magic is really insane.
maybe i win, but
maybe too late.
maybe the mind was designed to be tame.
maybe i can’t hear the call of my name.
and maybe just maybe…
i need not be saved.

* * *

Been sitting on this one for a few days and I’ve tweaked it and it’s close, but I’m not comfortable with it, although I don’t know why. Anyway, here it is. Comments are welcome as always.

To Scare Away Monsters

The movie rolls smoothly to a sudden jerk,
credits scroll in order of who shot first,
and we’re all fast asleep, basking
(in tv black-glow and orange and blue
indications that our time has expired)
in positions our mothers would be proud of.

All except for one: stoic bright-eyed or rather
half-glazed or maybe just sprinkles on top,
definitely no bushy tail in this half-dozen
deceased that moan out (for the sole benefit of my ears)
whatever tormented pleasure mimics reality.

Dejectedly amused I crawl the stairs
to my love’s room, as she sleeps in waiting,
not watching me apply a shirt not mine
to my tv-tanned skin under digital clock light,
making extra sure the buttons are on the right-
a feature of shirts previously not typical to this closet,
but that’s why we say “i love you”
with all her lefties as ancient history, yet secretly
I’m hoping for a comeback before I retire.

She stirs as I stir
(a rustle to my disquiet?
aware of subtle wakefulness?)
as the patrol of the night light
does little to ease her mind of monsters
and I question her age-
she tells me her name.
I pluck all the buttons off this shirt
and replace them with screams.

(from under the bed)