192

Posted on January 16, 2011 by urbansonnets

Beauty and meaning, one love, two lovers,

a Paris pair, just flailing, just pouring
out lymphatic rains as the wind hovers
and the light lingers – the sun is soaring:
No, the sun is foreign – oriental
eyes my thoughts under the African sun
not native to the alien mental
frameworks and shop windows shaming 'the One':
I hope one day that the sands turned to streets
and said, "Hey, brothers, we cannot be beat
under the martial parade's two-bit beats,
or by the glass that cuts us from pained feet:
Penitence, Pertinence, pay attention
to pluvial passersby's Prevention.
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191

Posted on January 16, 2011 by urbansonnets

Caravan, the weatherman has called you

off with prognostications of carafes 
full of sand, or snow, or flagrant haiku
of powdery lights, of true love's last laughs:
Caravan, your route turns up unwritten
as the windy wind wends its borrador,
wiping golden-white the Moorish mitten
with no palms in hand, no pools on the floor:
She vanished behind a curtain of doubt,
went poof like a puddle under the sun
whose electric rays outshined her pale pout
until you came alive, oh, my bright son!:
Turn back toward home! Gaze upon your serfs!
Break bottles on boats on your windy wharfs! 
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190

Posted on January 16, 2011 by urbansonnets

Do we measure our rounds in seasons, signs

or sounds? Does the poet sound out sonnets
in yams or iambs, in sines or cosines,
in loans or in tender maids in bonnets?:
It's all still the same; you are who you were,
until you let the songs sing from the snow
and crack the ice, as clear as water, pure
as a porcelain mistress's blood flow:
On the table is an exotic man,
carved in ebony and mahogany;
in the flesh, he'd be a seer, a fawn
coated in the coattails of legacy:
The stars were a riot that fateless night
he slept like a fish and woke up a knight!
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189

Posted on January 16, 2011 by urbansonnets

What am I doing? What am I saying?

How is this helping the world get around
itself? The darkest chocolate is cloying!
Erratics surround the surrounding sound:
Quite a mellow man, quite a mellow could,
the obstinance is undressing the space,
and my hope shines her metal piece of wood
down my ritual backlog of disgrace:
Habits must be peculiar, but this is
missing the point of habits to begin 
with; my habits of hoping in crisis,
my hopes of happenings in the trash bin:
Was that a ME decision? I don't know.
What do you mean? That it's time now to go.
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188

Posted on January 15, 2011 by urbansonnets

The word is dangerous when it touches

the spirit of a time that lags behind
ahead, across and over the rushes,
the reeds that cleanse the smirched feverish mind:
Escape is the instant, the potential
of smoke clearing the air, bombing the sky
tearing away tears from differential
equations of self, of face, of time's eye
in the hands of the beholden to God,
where conversation stalls actual meanings
and slashes the back as it spares the rod,
and savors the sounds of private screenings:
Footsteps in the dark, footprints in the Word
trace a path from One to the tripled Lord.
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187

Posted on January 6, 2011 by urbansonnets

My feet were throbbing from the energy

of the night and day collapsed into full
time, spherical and tenacious; dirgy
wails crested through me like waves when they shoal:
No shallow urges, just profound urgings
before linear time falls down the plug;
The tides are dragging death in their surgings
out from its shadow where the shades just shrug:
Their acknowledgement appears so serene
until one sees that they lived passively,
never choosing to act like light or screen,
like blight or spine; My feet throb massively:
And then I stood and I made a phone call
to an open spirit with a closed Fall.
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186

Posted on January 5, 2011 by urbansonnets
It was a weird dream, in that there was merg-

ing with past selves in the dark of the light,
while present bereavements cold as Iceberg
Slim's professed persona's gangly nearsight:
This is not a trite moralization,
but rather a tale of intoxicant
expectations that mist the complexion
of Normalcy, that mendicant:
S/he begs with a bill, not with an invoice
and charges a tithe as a decent tip,
and your nostrils flare, 'cause you have no choice
but to pay up and stay on its Fools' Ship:
I wish I could feign the coordinates of truth,
but I'm not a Judith, much less a Ruth.
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185

Posted on January 5, 2011 by urbansonnets

I had a dream last night of old teachers,

senile but supported for sacrifice
made in youth, when the uncertain creatures
of mental cosmography did entice:
My world is quintile, and the torrid zone
of fragrance and emotion lies between
two tropics of pincers and time alone,
while the Eastern knife-stars menace my spleen:
Do I plunge into the depths of unknown
magics and monsters to reveal the sad
truth about our temperance, overblown
by the illusive lushness of our dead:
I mean by our shadow, projected as
horrid Edens, where slaves eat their own grass.
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184

Posted on January 2, 2011 by urbansonnets
After ripping away the bandages

from his heart and mouth, the young truth-seeker
screamed and drowned in a flood that ravages
oppressed minds and makes noble thoughts meeker:
But as the water pulsed out from his wounds
something quirky happened: the room in which
he stood turned into old county fair grounds,
and a bold, younger him wound up to pitch:
The ball hit the target, and the walrus
was dunked, and he had undone this violence
by unplugging his veins in the chorus
of crystal of the glass house's silence:
This spelled out healing in the first degree;
he was hid at home, but now lost at sea.
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183

Posted on January 2, 2011 by urbansonnets

Composure and peace feel like butter rubbed

(after melted) on every cell I have,
every impulse that could quiver when loved,
in sheer delight, each tremor is a laugh:
There is sweetness in the unprocessed thought
that lies on the edge of the fragrant tongue
that laps up the lights of Christmas trees, wrought
with perpetual shimmer, where faith is hung:
Speculaas spaceships repair to the vibes
that coursed through the skin in happier times,
of majestic thoughts and meaningful tribes
that shaped away from difference  ruthless rhymes:
The white lights are joyous, the air brilliant;
true meanings are scheming and never meant.
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