98

Posted on April 4, 2010 by urbansonnets

Just as Prester John, on the fringes of 

memory and legend, I inhabit
those same mental gardens of hate and love,
trapped in dream and unable to nab it:
Crescendo, damn it – crescendo of light –
I'm not scared of true movement, only truth
which reveals that I flounder, heart alight
with the vision appeased from this flesh booth:
It's okay, it's alright – I am waxing
to one day wane into the dirt I touch
as I'm potting this palm, nails re-lapsing
in the know-how of earth, learning so much:
Columbus and Christ both sought these gardens,
and changed space to plant meanings upon them.
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97

Posted on April 2, 2010 by urbansonnets

I went to sleep with formulas written

in my eyes, but I could hardly read them;
the symbols were strange, the message hidden,
but all meanings will come when I need them:
Am I feeling impatient, though, for change?
The springtime wind feels awful refreshing,
as it fills my room with pollen and strange
bubbles of thought, ever effervescing:
Effervescent until evanescent –
one moment in bloom, next day I'm a mess,
sitting on my carpet or lying, spent,
in the bed I built with a dream, hapless:
So this change would be, therefore, constancy –
that spirit of fresh that sparks constantly. 
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96

Posted on April 1, 2010 by urbansonnets

An efficient excision really helps,

when you narrow your sights to the open
air between Moon and Master – the heart yelps –
and the spirit cuts down on chains broken:
Which though rusted and broke can still confine,
until you notice that feet, firm on the ground –
unbound by shackles, unfettered from shine –
dig toes into earth where flowers abound:
Pull up a few, and have a profound whiff;
you'll like the scent, since it is your own heart,
released from the nebulous haze so stiff
like starch on a pantleg, which creases part:
This increases the feel of your own skin,
which is the point from which true arts begin.
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95

Posted on March 24, 2010 by urbansonnets

I just eye-witnessed a funeral march

jump out of stale air to deaden the space
between the cosmic and the whispers, arch
in its own fogginess like liquid lace:
One spirit said to me, "Take this damn key;
I can't bear to open what I can't see."
One kinda wanted to leave; one to see
to it that calm and love could somehow be:
But the air is damp, intentions laden,
though the clouds streak leaden across the skies;
These spirits are tired, or misshapen,
and the whispers in the air spell out lies:
Or at least half-truths about dreams, wishes,
when dreams are dead, and those spirits lushes.
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94

Posted on March 23, 2010 by urbansonnets

There is so much energy in the crutch

between util- and futil-ity when
hope dissipates into look-but-don't-touch
showiness for the sake of attention:
Tragicomic, really, in our modern
sense of the term, which has very little
to do with kings and queens and the pattern
of ingrained failure in royal mettle:
But this ain't about great men with hubris;
It's a matter of ordinary life
stretching too far for love, and to prove this,
I'll offer my own failure in relief:
While I fail because of fear, I know love
lies most snug in the hand, never the glove.
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93

Posted on March 21, 2010 by urbansonnets

Taquería La Cumbre – What a name!

I respect that you take your craft to heights
unknown by the steady palettes that aim
to put and pay a price on heaven's nights:
Steadiness in the eye like off TV's,
looseness in the hand like a marble joint
between tiles, while the walker steps at ease
on the cracks at the Mall to make a point:
The message is a maintenance of order
on the road to utter commerce and bliss
La Cumbre is a mission built after
the slaughter of those who didn't know this:
I'm home up on top, don't doubt me, my love;
I will send you a taco from above.
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92

Posted on March 21, 2010 by urbansonnets

Train back to trained hands on deck and on course. 

Refrain from biting the tongue and not pen.
Constant heart beating for better or worse,
times these rhymes within their metered oven:
You can smell the future words cooking up
while the water in the glass floats on through
time and space, at its level, looking up
at air, bleeding currents from 10 to 2:
Intuition is an amazing force,
a wonderful stage for driving points home,
an ideal clear moment to stay on course,
when the power to intuit points home:
The subway platform pullulates with life,
as each cualquiera takes home a new wife.
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91

Posted on March 21, 2010 by urbansonnets

Lucid is an interesting word to use;

it often describes clarity, not light,
as if these things are equally diffuse
in this space touched in the front of my sight:
But light is heavy with insight sometimes,
and I'm feeling lucid on that level,
like words on a page that speak their own rhymes,
or like a taste raised by the tongue's shovel:
I'm beaming up, in other people's words,
though in foreign hearts, I arrest the flow,
due to a presence or taste left past curbs
on the king's road because green means to go:
I traffic in light, red, yellow, and green
when skies are blue or black, or in-between.
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90

Posted on March 19, 2010 by urbansonnets

I aim to be quiet, quick like live flame,

for a quiet mind is the quickest mind –
not quiet in a sense of voiceless shame,
nor quick in terms of the speed of the grind:
No, I mean quiet and quick as live flame,
(controlled on a wick) that flashes, flutters,
splutters, splashes as the breezes take aim
at its spectral tongue that never stutters:
Quiet, quick like living in total calm –
calm winds, calm hands to mete out fresh new rhymes
and a crisp approach to life, in the palm
of which rest the drupe-y fruit of bless'd times:
That is, times where one doesn't have to rush
to quickly feel the grace of life's light touch.
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89

Posted on March 18, 2010 by urbansonnets

Looking like a stained glass reverie tree.

Tasting like congealed suet and sugar.
Flailing like a lukewarm morning breeze, free
from hating life because I mistook her:
All of that. I embody today, plus
the vacant seats of languid onlookers,
whom I've made stand for a two-bit applause
and fear my bids like some ten-cent hookers:
Feeling like $27.00 cash,
though not too far from 100%,
I'd much rather inflame before I crash,
and give up the burn because it is Lent:
So that when Easter hits, I'm A-OK –
whatever that means's whatever you say. 
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