Tuesday, March 13, 2007


Pen in hand unwinds the tireless demand
from unanswered questions that sift as sand
through my fingers, past my vernacular
of which the sum of none fits precise or spectacular

Reflectiveness, deep empty stares over short distances
digging painstaking around the past's feelings and instances
A nostalgic grave robber lurking about the place of the dead
and given to mourn the lovelorn spirits still haunting his head

Pitiful miracle believer, soothing seared hopes with aloe silence
over ruminating years, still pondering the depths of her ambivalence
True, it was self-discovery, but flames of the past lick hot and lavishly
the sensitive underside of memory, displaying times so apparently
lying peacefully, limbs intertwined under many soft summer eves
splendid in everything, how time turns our All to drifting leaves

In those times
my way a brilliant ray punched through menacing cloud
my dismay my hesitancy to extoll such things aloud

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

It sounds pretty good, but I like your other shit better. This one is too out there for me. Although, I guess you have to have that shit to complete your poetry portfolio.

Go Mets.