251

Posted on March 13, 2011 by urbansonnets

Crimson and furry colored petals 

were glimpsing out above the crystal vase.
I was never happier, as when a man settles
on his fate, and has given up the chase:
I spun around with wet hands and deposited
the vase down on the ready table
and lit a candle behind to make it glow,
positive that all my dreams were in tow:
What seemed well-received was relieved, though, to
deceive and mislead a leader of men
for purposes as fuzzy as a hazy wave, 
for questions not even God knows the answer:
I'm limping away unworried though chastened
in my blind reform for men. Amazing.
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250

Posted on March 13, 2011 by urbansonnets

Like a monument to the common past

that will one day crumble and dissipate,
I celebrate the Word that will stand last
to establish a New World Syndicate:
Now, I do not speak of conspiracies,
only of truth, honor, love and noblesse;
its symbols are white flowers and blue seas,
golden auras and purple dresses, yes!
We are peaceful but will evoke madness 
if those in power refuse to desist;
they have caused us unmerited sadness,
wringing their cheapened fruits from our right fists:
But the left hand holds on to a flower –
by thorn or fragrance, it airs out power.
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249

Posted on March 13, 2011 by urbansonnets

Wrap me up in my own language! Wrap me,

and watch me come home to a thousand lights.
Through a thousand deaths, I saw the sap tree
leaking, ready for the taking of our rights:
I don't pilfer cultures, I aim to build
from the ground and my mind a truth unvoiced,
so that for every slur that might be spilled
there is a bigot heart that might be killed
except for the noble air that we hoist
above the heavens, below the distance
between wrong and rhythm; time is instant
and constant and extant and protestant:
I dislike minorities who "sell out;"
the "applause" does clap their golden bell out.
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248

Posted on March 12, 2011 by urbansonnets

The water roars over the swimmer's ears

like electric aircraft, like cars on streets
that pass by open windows, bypass fears
and arrive at home as Time repeats:
The waves are a maze, an endless ripple,
a faceless dream that replaces hard truths
on the nature of love which must cripple
the forward strides of magic, of our youths:
I mean, the nature of life, of which youths
in plural make up the shortest segment
but the sweetest one – my sweet saying sooths
the inner child after his leg bent:
A singular youth, though, can never die,
since renewed waters replenish the sky. 
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247

Posted on March 12, 2011 by urbansonnets

I never understood celebrating

after funerals; I take death badly.
I've been criticized for isolating
after loved ones pass, for mourning sadly:
I guess what depresses is the total
lack of control over bringing them back,
though in many ways, for good and for ill,
they never fully leave you or their track:
And I now see how this is a freedom,
a commission to act in accordance
with the mortal contract to be someone,
if only by living to see Death's dance:
I dreamt I couldn't lock my old room's door;
I must embrace what this life has in store.
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246

Posted on March 12, 2011 by urbansonnets

The flowers poke through despite the climate

of watery coldness mixed with humid
air that makes a body want to time it,
that is, the time it takes to turn tumid:
A sadness lingers over siren sounds,
as emotions swell with water and fear;
a new era is upon us, surrounds
us with new grounding as spring hovers near:
There were deaths and rebirths, there were failures
and successes, but loss has held its own
amidst the accumulating measures
taken to keep one's power as one's own:
But there is no control. We all are lost.
We'll be happy again, but at what cost?
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245

Posted on March 10, 2011 by urbansonnets

I'm like the dog in Duck Hunt: impish smile,

brown skin, white teeth, and you just can't shoot me!
No matter how close you put the gun, I'll
just keep laughing until you reboot me:
That is, the dog becomes the game, is it;
the beagle's bugle is our instrument; 
the terrier's terroir wants to visit
itself upon us to shape our moment:
Hand-eye coordination skipping the eyes
becomes hand-to-hand combat, or hand-to-
mind tactfulness; healing hands realize
that this "real" life is too much to handle:
So we open up worlds by closing wounds;
like plastic guns, my words must make no sounds.
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244

Posted on March 10, 2011 by urbansonnets

I just learned a brand-new language called thought

in which words stay stuck in the head until
you know that no one is around to rot
your word's meanings with their issues, mental:
The definition of language is like 
a vase of flowers, or some fresh coffee:
the aura, the fragrance must always strike
the nose before one can approve of me:
I am lost without language, but without
it I must go, until I kill my old thoughts,
uproot them like weeds, replace them (no doubt)
with fresher flowers, placed in colored pots:
In the meanwhile, I'll throw rocks at the sea;
they will skip the words between you and me.
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243

Posted on March 10, 2011 by urbansonnets

Though I am a sinner and a liar

and am evil all across and over,
I'll play decent if the highest buyer
stuffs my closet with a four-leaf clover:
I shoot down sparrows with my black eyelids,
I eat hawks with my saucer-eyed cunning,
and I'll dance with those who were once shy kids
turned magnates hooked into number-one-ing:
But don't you dare flash a real smile at me;
I am ill-equipped to understand it:
the joy, the pain that you confide in me,
the loss of control though I demand it:
So I'll just go shove you in the closet;
your corpse is fresh, so I'll have to lock it.
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242

Posted on March 8, 2011 by urbansonnets

With eyes that always see, the true winner
emerges unblind, unbounded by loss
because the truth is thicker and thinner
(simultaneously) than the lies we toss:
Most fundamentally, there are two truths –
the inner and outer, which ensure us
of some kind of beauty, despite misuse,
like the arsonist's flames that assure us:
They assure that there was something to burn,
an itch to scratch, a dream to wake up from;
but – what do you know! -you burned down my shack,
and (dead or alive ) I shine still like the sun!
A dream is torched, but memories persist;
your beauty's inside your external abyss.

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