Dark Humor (From A Crumpled Desk Note)

It's funny to me
How I will always forget what
He said
But not the way
Light hit the side of his face.
Like a film noir.
It wasn't even that dramatic.
Well, maybe it was.

I could cut the tension
With the worst metaphor in the world.
He spoke the same poisonous words.
Standing there, shouting at me.
Not a thought rolled through
Our heads.
Hot air.
Screaming, pointing.
Blah, Blah, Blah.
I was once his anti-venom.
Is it wrong to look at a scar and laugh?
It's not even funny.
Just pen on paper that looks pretty.

Critical

You let yourself wander,
But never be lost.
In words or actions;
With or without Intentions.
Never trusting
Those vapid tongues
Sweetened by "Experience."
Smiles can shroud the ugliest deceptions.

I caution you
Of words from closed mouths and
Warmth in icy waters;
Ribcages full of apologies.

But you--YOU are NOT asleep.
Awake in your dreams,
Painting a Monet in a black and white world.
Knowing that you know nothing
And that you
Have vision in a blind world.

You choose to leave footprints behind
Knowing
They wash away in the sea,
Just to know that they EXISTED.

Goodbye, Goodnight

I love,
      like a heavy sun-rain,


a woman with scars
              like light through
         my blinds in the morning
             falling across
               the stillness of her 
                                   naked legs,
 casting shadows
            that make me hungry


and
     ache to love her 
        in a field absent of anything
                       but us and moon or
                                         sun
                                      or fire.


   Her eyes float like stars stolen
          from Van Gogh and
     her hands have scars
        like his nights,
                  which I still kiss
                          when I can.


     She has a secret scar,
                 too,
that I used to kiss.


I would brush my lips against
                             it,
then press a promise in,
     a different one every time,
                  but it seems I've broken
                                               most.


Once promised to swear
     by the taste of it,
        thin and white,
every day,


now I grind sand
   between my teeth by
     the long days
     that are not that first, fleeting
                hour of light
                 when the morning creeps in
  and lies next to me,
               warming the pillow
              I leave standing
              in remembrance
        of scars and shadows
                     I forgot to kiss
                                goodbye,
               goodnight.

Laura

     I dreamt it was winter
and you were a wind.

         your feet
and the palms of your hands
     were iced of blood,
   scarred and thin,
       so you buried your fingers
in the fur of my beard
     and warmed your cool
            wet lips
   against  my
desert dweller's tongue.

My bed was freezing over,
     so you climbed in after me
and for the first time
       I slept,
     and then you brought
                 the morning ,
and your eyes sang to the birds.

My heart slowed and yours sped
and we met in the spring,
   and the blackbirds stole
our hair from the pillow

to warm their blue eggs,
                 as freckled as your nose
       or my eyes.

   I dreamt of a fox with sad eyes,
           and a smirking cat.

I dreamt of a wolf and a lioness
           at once,

and so many times
      I met you
        in the morning.        

One sonnet and one almost sonnet

A Sonnet in Memory of Small Wings

of black wings settled live on her shoulder,

of memory dark with the night of all

unlived,

I sing a requiem. Tears fall

as some sunsets never do. I saw her

pass by on her little

clouded feet, ev’n

talked, quickly - violently fell, unfurling

voraciously dove into eyes of

burning

copper, alive with a mercy, to leave

my heart un-emptied. To leave me stay whole,

from blooded feet, floundering

a thousand

frozen miles over mountains maw - respite

from the red impaling crush of a soul

Sinking in, sucking bone,

like light

like sand

Into a supernova.

What light! What light!

Part 2, sort of a sonnet.

What tearing joy to be rent asunder

by beautiful passions and noble

Deaths! Oh,

what faulted, perfect love it is

To live! She smiled to me – against my tender

Cheek where I burn deeper than scars recall,

And I blinked, heard her ruffled feathers flutt’r,

Shuttered

to fall, to stir anew and dance

Themselves,

to laugh and weep the way pearls do,

So quiet and blue.

I , grounded albatross

Of broken porcelain pieces, I lay

Blinded, did pray for flight forsaken

, know

She has gone and I have not pained not died

Or lived.

For such un-birthed sorrows of her

Cruel un-colored sort of mercy, I sing.

onederland

A CATTERPILLAR WITH TATTOOED TEETH

IN A LAND WITH LIGHT THAT SLIDES ALIVE AND BLUE

AND MEN GRINNING BACKWARDS,

I DRANK TEA MADE FROM MUSHROOMS, HEARD FLOWER AND LEAF

LAUGH AT ME LOUD AS FLUTES AS I SHRANK AND GREW

I, THE MAN GRINNING AND BACKWARDS.

IN THE TULGEY WOOD I STOOD UFFISH AND CHOKED ON WORDS

SPAT LIKE SMOKE FROM WHERE, LIKE STONE BESTREW

A CAT, A PILLAR TATTOOED, TEETH

SHARP AND GOLD AS A DREAM BENEATH

A MEMORY.

WHO ARE YOU?

- I AM ME. ,CONTRARIWISE WHO

ARENT YOU?

NOT HARDLY WHO I WAS. NOW A MAN GREIVING BACKWARDS.

THE HARE’S OFF IT’S HEAD WITH CURSED RABBIT’S LUCK,

DODO BIRDS

ARE BURBLING AND HYPNOTISING, GIVING PILLS THAT DON’T DO, DON’T DO

SO THE CAT – I ATE A CATERPILLAR WITH THESE TATTOED TEETH

AND THE WAKEFULL KUEEN CALLS BETWEEN RED TEETH

OFF WITH THIS FLOATING HEAD,THIS

THIS CATERPILLAR WITH TATTERED TEETH

THIS MAN GRINNING BACKWARDS

I Hope You Read This (My Sister's Journal)

I have written this

Over your notes.
A created image I've conjured.
I hold creased memories,
Soiled without your presence.
A face, a figure,
Someone I never fully knew,
Nor will I fully
Understand.

Through the aged rubble
Of your possessions,
I question:
Who are you?
How can I even know
or at least acknowledge
your existence if
I've never seen your true face.

I realize the intensity.
You live on worn backs and tempered souls.
Finding any reasonable explanation,
Or even just a note
Is impossible.

Peering into
Pages of your mind,
I philosophize on life.

Maybe we never really know
Who we are
Or who we will be.

Maybe,
Everyday of our
Meaningless existence
We seek truth, Answers.
For nothing.

Maybe,
Doing what we love is
All the solace
This world
Can ever
Offer us.

Maybe,
I never knew you because
I tried to embody
A memory.

A phantom in reflections
Whom I've never known.
Would I be let down?
To know your stories,
Forming truths within
Untwisted tongues.

Would we be closer
Or more distanced in Space?

Perhaps,
In time,
We can take down our
Masks
To really know
What is inside.