"To Protest"

Take your banners; men,
Take them among the cold winter streets
And weave in autonmous lines,
Your warm breath illuminating
bloodied statistics.

Take your banners; you dreamers.
Expose the youthless eyes
To what you consider to be just.
Let them know you think it true.

Fight for your cause, humble warriors.
Bring the troops home, if you must.
Let the talk of change flow.

But when your warm breath turns cold;
Retreat.
Let gold-paved dissilusion resume,
And take to the woods, you cowards.
Have you no idea how to inspire?

Take your banners in flight; men,
And bring your cause to the wild.
Stake your words at the feet of the trees.

"Ha,"
The wise ones will reply--
Hinting at a fact they have long known;
At the words nearly engraved in their withering limbs:
"nothing ever changes"

A Provisional Insight

It's the difference between quiet winter air

and department store soundtracks.

It depends on how you feel, my friend--

Like a windfall occurrence

after many unmarked calls.

Or when I take

Impatient walks through those clothing isles.

Hours on my toiling feet.

If I spot you even once,

it'd be worth my while.

(You're never around)

And Sometimes

It has a lot to to with the bicycle racks;

They aren't too beautiful

without your standstill spokes.

I left you flowers in them.

(You never knew)

I don't want to know when you work.

I enjoy to come alone at random times

to gain an insight

on love.

"The Wayfarer"

This is NOT my work. Yet it has inspired me. A friend of mine on another blog shed light on this man's words. I seek to become the wayfaring man.

The Wayfarer

The wayfarer,

Percieving the pathway to truth,

Was struck with astonishment.

It was thickly grown with weeds.

"Ha," he said,

"I see that no one has passed here,

In a long time."

Later he saw that each weed

Was a singular knife.

"Well," he mumbled at last,

"Doubtless there are other roads."

-Stephen Crane

Expect Delays

When The Time Comes

“Stand clear of the closing doors.”

Please.

Let’s be listless for a while,

I know a place.

There’s a room in this city...

Full of smoke.

If you’re lucky,

It’s at the stop with the children

slowly reciting valedictorian speeches.

Look for eyes that frighten you

like the aspect of love.

(That’s the one.)

Head a few blocks north,

and ring a door or two--

I’ll be down in a minute.

Write Back, In Black Ink

The bottom line is, the past was never black and white.
(I've been telling you for quite a while now)

It's about time we met in a field somewhere
to discuss our differences,
so the grass can tell you what I mean.
And for Christ's sake
the birds can play their part.
I won't even say a word.
(but I swear I'll get the idea across)

Perhaps I'll remind you that I once loved you,
but then again;
I don't want to break any promises.
My eyes will suggest a desire to touch a star
(It couldn't get any harder)

Maybe we'll meet there instead.
In the past,
Wrapped in all sorts of black and white.

A Plausible Escape

To Rest

Mortal Asymptote

Once Again, I Long To See It Coming

The wheels on the bus go round and round.
(round and round, round and round)
finally we’re at some sort of destination.

Led out of the metal cage,
fifty feet in the usual direction...
Sometimes, I wish they’d just tell us:
"Careful now, children...
You’re standing on the edge of oblivion.”

But all I hear is a distant clamor,
reverberating through the cavernous halls.
and see early morning frowns reflecting
Thousands of transitions...

All of them, enclosed and compressed
(Exposed and surpressed)
And then a strange sound causes them to scatter.
At least it gives us structure.

We dissipate into seperate cocoons
where irrelevant instructors try their best
as the anxious lives look on,
this time waiting for the sound
(that electric scream)

They thought they'd see it coming.

"Hear Your Silence"

The walls can now hear you speak,
words (even whispers) are twisted legalities.
fingers are bitten down to the bone...
WHITE MARROW, to be consumed by the man,
the man who always wins--
In his shroud of black
(red and white and blue)

He hides behind the plasters,
(in the creases of the mind)
waiting with his crooked eyes
You fear him.

But when he’s come, remember:
You have the silence to remain right,
Surely you’re no longer speaking?

"To Think of Rope"

THE CROW SPEAKS WITH A SHROUDED TONGUE
- an incessant sound -
As he licks his fingers...

(he does not care; he saw it coming)

And now, father lies still with broken eyes--
As the children inquire...

"Is he sleeping, mama? He told me he was tired."

Tears shed down spoiled cheeks,
Mother says she doesn't
know.

Grieving colors of monotone men,
And the faces of solemn women look on.

They are frightening.

And when the little ones ask who will push their rope swing,

Mother can't bear to think of rope.

"Temporary Suspension"

You know how it goes:
A cardinal flies overhead while you're walking alone,
Nothing but dirt under your feet.
Neither of you make a sound.

Neither of you know how.

Mothers lips come to mind, but they're no longer there--
two wings remain, crimson undulations.

A temporary suspension of her image,
Like lips illuminating her face in your mind.

The exact image she described
(When she told you to remember her)
When she told you she'd try and learn to fly,
So that a cardinal would be more than


She once was.

"Momentary Brilliance"

Is this a trick of sorts?

Will the red curtain fall softly,

and the glaze-eyed crowd acclaim

the momentary brilliance?



They will exert a wall of sound:

cupped-hand harmony--

for the sake of



what?



But I promise-- when you finish your contortions,

and your breathing slows--

I will stand up; leave the flowers in

the aisle,







And walk away in silence...