how.

much.

longer.

the night it cuts like daggers

tortured artist.
cliché, i know.
i hate the way it sounds
the way it feels behind my eyes.
but it's there,
and it somehow fits.

they say it worked
for Sylvia,
Charles
and Anne.
that is,
as far as their work was concerned.
but my mind wanders to the night
when the wind picked up
and the silence rolled out of bed.

i don't always want to lay here,
alone,
and sleepless
consorting with the dark.

i've heard art imitates life,
but i think it imitates truth.

sometimes i'm not quite sure
what i should do with the truth
that crouches behind my heart
like some sort of dark beast.

i hope to GOD i don't always write like this.
one day i will conjure up words
that mothers will read to their children
in the light beam of gardens.

and it will be beautiful
and nothing will hurt.

Gregorian Chant

last night we were more than mere men.
a heaven-like-earth hung from our hands
as the paint trickled down.

the twang of country music
swept over our heads
while we knelt on the carpeted floor
laboring on paper altars.

even the stars themselves
slid a sideways glance
down our way.

a lapse in time
like a blot on this page.
my friend,
it shall never be forgotten.

Dies Saturni xxii Augustus MMIX

it's coming.
it's coming like a storm
beating against the barricade
that keeps this city safe.

it's busting in the door
that leads to the room
where my secrets are stored
neatly stacked in their respective cupboards.

this heartbeat inside of me pounds
and leaves the room for restless dreams.

all of me belongs here.
planted.
in
this
place.

but somehow it's become high time
that i pack up all of me
and leave
this
place.

because it's coming.
and it'll never turn away.

inhaling these sodden summer days
listening to leadbelly
and drinking southern style real brewed sweet tea.

i'll miss you when the morning comes.

In The Sour Grass Field


there lay my face on your wrist
like a heart on a sleeve

painstaking.
sweat brow.
pen strokes.

you held your arm out
in the blazing summer sun.
"look," you said,
"it's you."

how dear you were
in that moment.
with great crashing pride
you viewed your handiwork

talking.
talking.
talking.
you were always
talking.

libraries of words
falling off the shelves of your mouth.

drawing.
drawing.
drawing.
you were always
drawing.

and now,
this image of me.

like a brand upon the brain.

you thought it'd
be there, to
remind you
of
me.

but not all things
can be as they were first intended.
the rain eventually lets up
children abandon their red balloons
prisoners come up for paroll
and ink fades.

I was witness to this.
first on your wrist.
and then in your chest.

SS General Slocum

i see you there.
excreting monsters
and rabid animals
from your soul

the iv drips
you cling to the needle
like a naked child
clutches its mother's chest

you let forth mournful moans
and harranging screams
a broadcast of the nightmare
your existance has become

i see you there.
no longer dancing with the devil
but collapsed in his yard,
what a sad waste of a heart.

it's getting late
and the black sun is crawling
to the other side of this world
it's become hard to make anything out

but don't worry dear,
i can still see you