rain water

I was born
a cracked clay pot
and placed under
a rain-gutter
so that tears
bleed through me always
and slowly tear me apart
and never allow me
the relief of emptiness.

Ode to Amanda

Wrote this last year.


At the crusted sight of my bare feet
He stops his lecture, stands straight, and asks me where
My shoes are; I can only blankly stare
With innocent eyes, and envision the street
Where minutes ago, before we donned our lies, we laughed indescreet
"Guess what A. just did?" she shakes her head, a mare
That has already begun ascending the spiral stair
And now cannot choose between death and retreat.
"'Cid," she giggled, and my smile was wet with tears
Not yet shed. I shiver. "You're blue, man!"
--She'd said, touching my hair with trembling fingers.
I am sure that my eyes still show my fear,
And that she in some way did understand;
--But it is deception to believe that more than the smoky color lingers.

The poet, the lover and the madman

Also written last year.


There he was,
everything they said he would be,
violent,
unearthly,
stumbling,
dizzying,
a reeling world of confusion
that I was not privy to
nor never would be
(if I did as I was told).
I envied him that
he had done everything
he ought not to do, broken every rule
he ought to have obeyed.
Then too I pitied him
that he had little left to do.
Is it strange of me to hold dear
the lengthly list of what I have yet to live?

He will not stop squeaking,
loosing a rambling narrative
that makes sense only to him
and within the bottle.

Something in me knows
that if only I were a step closer,
half an inch less sober,
or the tiniest bit smarter
I might hear
the secrets of the ancients,
the throve-guarded mysteries of the ages
come tumbling
from his froth-corrupted lips.

And then I cried
because what I labor to write
with all the force of my existence
could never meet
the raw beauty
of his drunken
broken
stuporous
syllables.
My passion,
the force that moves stones
and sometimes people,
will never match the
painfully
lovely nuances
of his words,
which drop like rubies
to the sea.

I cried because
no matter how long
I labor and pine to be heard
and remembered,
my voice too
must hang invisible,
a single drop beneath the surface of the sea
dispersing no farther than his
for all my inky pains.

I am afraid to step much closer;
and yet despite myself I drift,
wary,
towards his magnetic
wandering eyes,
hating my own caution
and my own painful desires.

Phrases drift within me;
"sweet sad world..."
"blowing in the wind..."
"to wish for impossible things..."
and, finally
"the poet, the lover and the madman..."

and then
for a moment I am smart enough,
near enough,
drunk enough
to hear
and see
and live
how much I have yet to know;

"...all are one."

The Poet of Garilye

Again, I wrote this last year.


Sweet Lindy May of sweet Garilye
Was fearful to cross her own door
And wore her hair straight like a curtain of sea
So that she'd be looked on no more.

But Arish was also in Garilye
And loved every street of the town;
Each morning his eyes jumped so jovially
That not even Lindy could frown.

He ran to the sunrise each Garilye day
And ran to the moonrise each night;
And he ran past the doorstep of Lindy May
And gave no regard to her plight.

Poor Lindy May of poor Garilye
Shied to the window each night
And waited and wondered all Garilye day
In hopes that he might end her plight.

"Arish!" she whispered one morning one May
"Will you stop and talk to me tonight?"
"I alas cannot stop all the Garilye day
And have not one spare moment to-night."

Poor Lindy May of sweet Garilye
Drowned her eyes and turned out the light;
"Alas my sweet Arish poor I will not see
Nor by day nor by Garilye night."

Then--"Mother," said Lindy, "please help me to-day--
Smooth my face and green my eyes
And teach me the elders of Garilye's way
That I might turn ever the tides of my life."

"And should I have Arish for just one day,
Should I hold him for just one night,
I'd keep him faithful the rest of his days
And the rest of his Garilye life."

So she crossed her own door in Garilye
And stepped into the light
And there she waited 'till it faded and he
Came dancing through the night.

"Sweet Lindy May, I cannot stay!
I must persue the night--"
But with smooth her face and green her eyes
And the lovelies that came with their yellowy light--

"Will you not stay all through the day
And through the poor Garilye night
And wash the sea away from me
And cloak me in your light?"

"Sweet Lindy May, I must not stay,
Lest the day devour the night!"
But pretty her eyes and green Garilye way
Begged for his yellowy light.

And quickly he did part the sea,
Smooth his face swimming green in here eyes,
And down the moon fell on Garilye
But the sun, he did not rise.