71

Posted on February 14, 2010 by urbansonnets

There are cars in the distance that sound like 

waves, and they fill the air with emotion
while the humidifier breams and like
the seas, imbues the time with due motion:
Which is to say: I make the most of this
ambiance, hearing and feeling despite
the clammy tautness of skin gone amiss,
three dimensions of time and space and light:
Unlike Boreas, my sky is dewy,
my thoughts verdant and my dreams oh so blue –
If I could share the things I get to see! –
and my shadow quivers, oh so soulful:
The deepest azure is the horizon,
and it girdles this stagnant environ. 
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70

Posted on February 12, 2010 by urbansonnets
Are early mornings better than late ones?

On the one hand, one can hear the silence
break into a hundred miniature suns
and then fuse with the one that climbs the fence:
Between time and divine there is a clear,
and the light would seem to inhabit it –
So to wake and watch the world reappear
would seem to be outside of man's ambit:
It's a gift then – but on the other hand,
the sounds of trucks sloshing, streaking on by,
and the greenish streaks in the dawn sky-band
might make a dreamer forget how to fly:
And that is a shame, although it's the truth –
daylight is the facts, darkness is uncouth.
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69

Posted on February 10, 2010 by urbansonnets

The wind moves the trees like a pencil box
sways in the hand of a child as she waves
goodbye to her father – school bells and clocks
ring and tock, tick and toll, and his soul caves:
Why? He won't be seeing her no time soon –
That is what the law said, and I can't blame him
for driving to the ledge, walking on the moon,
howling, from the heart, a pretty strange hymn:
No, I can't hate on that, nor on the law,
the process that stranded him for being
loose-lipped, with teeth that erode like a saw
the morsels of decorum and meaning:
The trees bend over to offer branches
to moist air and quick wounds that time stanches.

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68

Posted on February 9, 2010 by urbansonnets

I felt the venom of the world last night

in my veins as I fled from the rainstorm,
dripping from the skies with venomous might,
as the waves swelled forth in a deadly swarm:
The dark tropics were at home in the haze,
and I felt lovely in the humid air;
As I sweat, I bled from the heart ablaze
with bile – which was thrilling, and I was there:
I was the scene, as the wave crested high,
and it swallowed the space as we scurried –
I guess fate was quenched, and I knew I'd die
when I crashed into the lights, unhurried:
I don't know where I stand as I write this –
Does the poison ever end? Is death bliss?
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67

Posted on February 7, 2010 by urbansonnets

Poor Mulatta, you have my sympathy,

your undulous hair swaying as you walk,
your corn colored sheen and the memory
of freedom and music, of double-talk:
Are you two-faced, Mulatta? Or soul-split?
Either way, you dug the music I spit,
but you hate your spitting image; I bit
hard on your looks, thinking we'd make a fit:
But it wasn't so, or maybe it was – 
The moon at nights remembers me your cool
emptiness, and the tropical air buzz
that I fled from because I was a fool:
I understand your silence; Do you mine? 
Did you smile, Angel, as I wrote this line?
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66

Posted on February 4, 2010 by urbansonnets

There is a place for love in the language

you choose to use, my most poetic friend;
if you open your heart against fear, rage,
you will find that good port when all times end:
I say "all" because time is most certain
as it doubles and trines, kind of like words
in a thesaurus — each term's a burden
in the present, though the past pushes towards
some future, I guess, some place where time jumps
out and splatters like hot oil in the pan,
and you're frying language in different clumps;
or like waves that trace wakes to/from the sand:
a vessel comes home on its own timeline–
it's the same thing with words: please don't mind mine.
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65

Posted on February 2, 2010 by urbansonnets

Cursed by ingratitude to forever

repeat a day and a night where seasons
hinge on decisions, faith and endeavor,
you find your eyelids heavy with reasons
for your losses, your slowness, your failure
to cope with the movements of the timeline
imposed on you — (Yes it's true, imposed, sure;
I'll concede you that point, but like fine wine
you must glisten inside your glass prison,
under chandelier bulbs that glow so gold,
under the pretense of class unrisen
before the dawning of histories untold;
Then you'll make weak bellies quiver nauseous,
rising against the spirits that crush us.)
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64

Posted on January 31, 2010 by urbansonnets

I like the light here, both subtle and bright,

making each instant a whole world itself –
I am the king and quean by divine right –
I am my own dream – Ghibelline and Guelph:
Meaning lycanthropy, the Loup-garou
of my own conscious conscience – and effects
related, as blood binds our sins to you,
these facts force me to act as she elects:
"Who?" one might ask. Well, of course La Luna,
that directrix of waters, fierce huntress
of lovelorn hearts – Don't try to impugn her!
With her pair of white wolves, woven headdress,
She'll suss you out, and then rip you to strips,
and leave you howling for scraps from her lips.
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63

Posted on January 31, 2010 by urbansonnets

Sing along to the following blues song:

There's a golden perch where a blue bird sits /
and the roof of trees, it just sways along /
There's a golden perch where a blue bird sits /
and the roof of trees pierced by lunar light /
But, baby, by the time the next day hits /
Ol' Mr. Bluebird will be out of sight /
See: Mr. Bluebird, he has a new digs/
where the guns don't flash at the air so hard /
And Mr. Bluebird, he got a new bird/
and the guns don't pound on their drum so hard /
I been there – it's the loudest sound I heard:
Oh, baby, I hear them guns soundin' out /
I gotta play guitar to drown 'em out
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62

Posted on January 30, 2010 by urbansonnets

I prefigure in space and time as breath,

as insufflation, if you oblige me
the internalization of the depth
of meanings stitched by the difference set free:
From the present in that time's like a flow
in a space sort of like a rap cipher –
An undulating circle that moves slow
but thinks quick, and the law is an eye for:
An A or an E – both signs excellence
at the same time, but at differing points
in our life's journey, in this journey's sense,
like a prophet whose own body anoints:
Its own mind, which running, racing in place
guides the heart, body and language through space.
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