Poetry Thoughts

Thinking in poems, making un-poems. Please do not consider items posted here as “poetry.”

by

Satan

And last night
because I’ve been struggling
with pain
and cannot walk

the nightmares take the form
of visions and
I welcome them with
my other self

And last night
it was the Devil
with the name of
Satan
(which he prefers by the way)
who is angry for being
blamed when he
says he is not stupid
so how could he
why would he
damn humans

And I saw colors
that are not there
and cannot be described
but Satan was 4 dimensional
and in the center mostly
black while
all around him flamed
those colors so brilliant
and transforming
that we knew to touch
them was impossible
even in winter with
its white longing there

And last night
I cried when he left
and my other self
laughed and laughed

by

Because I Can’t Forget

I’ve used memory
to prod something lose
to give a sharp instrument
for the forced breath
of the frauds and creeps
that swell into the night
from what we cannot see
with your eyes or mine
gouged bloody from a face
when laughter echoed
mirror’s diamond glass then
cut him free, away from me
the ravished boy
once golden in the sun
then laid unmoving on the floor

 

I’d look forward to death if I thought that there I’d find him in some heaven of myth or religion.

Some place of golden beauty and loves of time and gifts of animals that we have loved and that have loved unbidden.

But lacking heaven I’ll seek out death to end in peace where I’ll not have to think or remember or dream.

And it won’t matter that he’s not there.

by

Silence

He walked into the Silence
and I followed him there
that winter alone
so sharp, cold, and
punched hard then bent
by thought in that carved
cave where nothing stands
where wolves creep in
to devour the thing that
isn’t there, that lives then dies
in that cold white silence

by

Edges

I’ve loved you around the edges
The corners, the fog,
those things next along the path where you hide.
There, there.
on The edges of dreams.
with Declaratory evasiveness,
Plainspoken ambiguity.
so We live in the margins,
the backdrop of the stage.
We don’t know who’s in the spotlight
and we don’t care,
hidden as we are by knowledge
in someone else’s poem,
a DeLillo novel.
a counterfeit silence.

by

Another Un-Poem

 

I felt you turn from me.

I didn’t seek your return, or touch your hair,

rewind anything.

I played the records of loss,

heard about not knowing.

Fed my anger until there was another

standing there.

Our bodies were so sweet,

sweaty with sand and sun,

flesh against flesh.