Her wooden bones ache with the arthritis of
winters countless embraces, snuggled up
with the cobwebs and forgotten frames,
she’s become lonely in her old age.
If you take the time and talk with her
you‘ll soon come to find, that once upon
a time she had a family, cozy nights listening
to the radio while a summer breeze floating
through the back door.
She fights the Alzheimer’s
of her own existence.
“A Whole Vanished Universe”
There is a certain smell that clings to these old places,
it isn’t something easily defined by word or rhyme
it is something particular to that time.
It evokes those secret places
that hide within the many faces
Hanging upon the wall. It would be a crime
to forget and so we remember one more time
all the haunts, the musty wood, the shoe leather, the loss of faces.
Cedar bones pile upon the shores
their smell seeping into the memories of an
old logging town, it’s in the blood now.
The heart that lies in these old stores
Wafts up and into the lungs where it began
a journey back, back to the sweat of brow.
I come from broken buildings
all crumpled over in despair.
I come from penniless pockets
and broken dreams, It’s a hard
round world, constant infinity,
the you is I,
and I is U
and we are nowhere near
a true end.
The world is broken, bruised an
fair. She is that porcelain vase that
all to unwittingly we break,
yet still life continues.
Nature claims what
we lay wasted, she puts
to use the weak and weary walls
and soon they too are the womb of
life, they thought they would never be.
We are the ruins of
this modernity, we too
can be reborn, the
stones are not alone
and neither are we.
I suppose,
what I’m getting at
would be that.
From ruination comes new life,
So lick the ruins and don’t think twice.
UngenderedThe Femininity of words,
is lost on the trickling of the brook,
which can be defiled of lifted up
by her opposite.
Scilence! the gender doesn’t matter
It’s how you frame the picture, be it
by candle and moon light, with a dust of rose,
or a cold unfeeling corridor leading
to the masters study.
Apollo and Aphrodite,
conflict upon the page,
all that they stand for: the follies
of men, and the desire’s of women,
sensual and soft.
Taking a step back through the mirror though,
I find myself (silly american), honched over text
ungendered, I find myself at a loss to make the
earth and the sky wed like the french would have them,
instead they sit on the page, two things with
a lack of love between them.
I can not make the words undergo a shot-gun wedding,
nor can I force them to just jump off a cliff together, with
the hopes that maybe at the bottom they’d merge,
Word don’t work like that.
Words,
Sun and moon. Night and day.
fire and Ice. girl and boy.
Sol y Luna, Noche y día,
fuego y hielo, chica y chico.
Funny how the gentle man
barges through the door before
the lady has a chance to take
even the first step.