Sunday, October 31, 2010

Shadow Highway




Alone, he rides the Shadow Highway        
Black tar road ‘gainst a sky of gray
A lonesome man on a lonesome road      
Traveling light, with a heavy load.   

Once he’d been certain his freedom lay    
Just down the road a little way.                               
So he packed his gear and grabbed his gun       
Drove his truck towards the golden sun.    

But the sun’s a way of stayin’ ahead                      
And yellow melts into bright red                              
Slips from the sky without a trace   
Revealing darkness behind its face.                      

Wanting to forget black times before         
Thought it left behind the closed blue door.           
Woman with no heart can’t feel the pain    
Woman like that can’t treasure rain.                      

But Shadow Highway’s got rules of its own          
Shows no mercy for a fool alone.                                                   
A straight yellow line does no explaining               
Switch on the wipers without complaining.

A cigarette can be a man’s best friend                 
When night rolls on without an end,            
Along a road that will not bend,      
When there are no lights, don’t have to pretend.  

With a flick, he tosses the butt away                      
And looks ahead toward another day.                   
Ghosts from the past don’t ride away                    
They travel along the Shadow Highway.                

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Through the Lens




Through the lens
Lounging casually
Draped in a single garment
Sheer blue
Slipping off her shoulder
Designed negligence
And a string of pearls
For she is a lady
This vixen of delight
Who laughingly releases
Sexual tension.

The blush of her cheek
Feeling his unshaven face
Brush against soft skin
A confirmation
Of her femininity
Of his masculinity.

No one peers
Through the lens now
And the slip
Lays forgotten on the floor
The memory is stored
In the fingertips
Upon the lips
And deeply beneath the flesh
In a place only they
Know how to reach.


The Woman in the Photograph

Coco Chanel



Why does the woman in the photograph
Have such deep black eyes?
They are unreal,
Unsettling,
Haunting.
I can’t help but stare at those eyes,
And irrationally, I feel rude,
Though she is just a photograph.
So I look away,
Then look again;
She is still watching me.
Why? Of all the people here,
She studies me, intently.
Still deciding . . .
No, it is not me
For whom she searches.
And though this conclusion eases me,
I admit I fear greatly
For the one she seeks,
With those deep black eyes.

Shadow Woman

Shadow Woman, photo by Michele Dugan



You cannot grab hold of your love
And hold her in your arms
Impervious to your touch
Unresponsive to your pleas

Shadow woman appears
when the sun starts travelling low
But she’ll shrink at the sight
Of the brilliance she sees
In your eyes as you gaze at her.

She hides in the dark
She is one with the dark
Where no one expects
And no one disappoints

So like a woman
Her curves and her movements,
She dances for you without thought
She dances to please herself.

Beware, for her heart is black
You cannot make her feel
You cannot be with someone unreal
For she isn’t here at all.

Shadow woman had no depth
Put your romantic delusions aside
Shadow woman has no soul
She was stripped of it long ago.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Last Elevator Ride




In a blink
she went
from human form
beating heart
and the warmth
between her
too plump thighs
To a blip
predictably followed
by another and another

Where is my mind?
Tripped up by the wire
You cannot capture
a soul upon the readout
from an electrocardiograph
White curtains held
by a dozen silver rings
another blip how many now?
A marionette cut free
We remain backstage

After it was all done
The code team finished
the nurses all gone
A flaccid technician
flipped the machine
off.

Look around the silent room
Is there still a whiff
from her last exhale
hidden amongst the odor
of rubbing alcohol
and catheter urine
that perhaps can be captured
and placed in a storage jar?

There’s still this body
laying there before my eyes
Orthopedic shoes
squeak in the hallway
Hurry up! Hurry up!
so they can dispose of it
elsewhere away and forget it
with the pathologist
Waiting to cut
Looking for what
Whose body is that?

Death
Black and bile
disease triumphant
cries of agony
and tears untamed
Death shows itself
like a cheap whore
to the living
Only . . .

Only she wasn’t there
not in the body
filled with embalming fluid
not in the shorn flesh
cut by a doctor’s scalpel
samples shoved upon a slide
not on the gurney wheeled into
the last elevator ride
not hooked to a silent machine
the moment I head the first blip.
Substance remained,
and was buried in the earth
But where exactly did she go
and why didn’t anyone notice?



Sunday, October 10, 2010

A Nocturne




Nightmares sprout wings
And gargoyles sing
operatic dirges
To the sensitive ones

Red neon sinners
wriggle and writhe
In oil slick puddles
That stain squalid streets

The lost the runaways
The despondently confused
Wander this labyrinth
Where the rain never ceases

She passes by
Ms. Late Model Luxury
A call on her cell
Wrong turn she’ll be late

Someplace else
She’d wind up dead
Pieces of herself
collected as trophies

This lethargic cesspool
Lacks such motivation
Gutters collect waste
The unwanted unwashed

Pain turned inward
Voices berate
Needles in veins
Fetid whores to cruel men

Nightmares sprout wings
And the boy on the sidewalk
Finds hope in the thought
They will fly someplace else

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Autumn

Tree at Prado by J. Wochholz



Hope fell
off the tree. Hues
vanish; cloud kissing, wind
dancing, all forgotten. Dry rot,
now dirt.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Untitled

Vincent Van Gogh, The Red Vineyard (1888)



‘Tis past the time of grapes,
Still small on the vine and not yet sweet,
What were your kisses then?
Shy and unsure yet much too willing;
Now, the field lays fallow,
I have missed the best pickings.

You pass me the glass,
Deep red blueberries and oak,
Imbibe with me, come taste
The bold mature flavor,
Entwine and swirl in the drunkenness,
As mouths share final robust kisses.

The last harvest has come and gone;
Laborers replaced by mourners,
Who share moist tears but no kisses.
Death does not require love,
Nor passion, just fidelity;
And this earth gives way for graves.

Monday, October 4, 2010

The Mist

Photograph by John Miller Whiteney (2008)



Gray mist
awakes, to creep
stealth-like between barren trees.
A chill passes, and my breath lies
silent.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Desire

The Vampire by Sir Philip Burne-Jones (1897)



'Tis not a simple flight of fancy
That leads me to your door,
Nor terrors found in darkened thoughts,
That make me come once more,
But hunger plain and simple
An endless thirst for blood
And yours I crave, yet never taste
For fear I’ll start a flood
A flood of tears I’ll never dry
Should you lay cold and dead
And so I come, but never take
Except to share your bed.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Night Scenes




Dark alley
Of trash, rats, and urine;
A stench both inside and out.
Dying lamppost
Breathes its last light.
Above, a window slams shut.
Approaching footsteps,
I suck in my breath;
So hidden,
He passes unaware.
I clench the knife tighter
Then, like his shadow
Begin to follow.
Like dreams;
Night scenes
Awaken my true self.

Friday, October 1, 2010

We Are the Dead




We are the dead
who skulk about
a scar on scraps
of memories distorted
holographic promises
full of meaning
void of substance
We are the dead
who find comfort
in one another
despite the presence
of specters and exorcists
The house can be rebuilt
New photos can be shot
Another mountain conquered
We are the dead
Who love each other still
We haunt each other in separate beds
and long for each others eyes
Alive only so much in places
where we co-exist in time
We are the dead
who know what it is
To live to love each other.