61

Posted on January 30, 2010 by urbansonnets

Golden hands and a noble heart, the space

you inhabit is fair and fresh – just as
a gentle rose garden's breeze in the face
wakes all senses from sky blue to green grass:
You are a panorama of sweet light,
suffusing all landscapes with your candid
sparks that combine to project truths so bright
they exceed the thrills my soul demanded:
I learned a lesson: the truth conquers all
when it's blended with vision, love and light,
and when it reveals itself during fall
in the garden where white poets delight:
It's winter up here despite my color,
and I've learned to paint my thrills much cooler.
 
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60

Posted on January 29, 2010 by urbansonnets

The golden street lights and trumpet blares spread

a triumphant swagger over the night
despite its darkness, in spite of the head
figures in charge of the deafness and light:
I just count seeds, and sometimes eat them too,
under the wing of blinding projectors
and visions of beef between rival crews –
and I flee with my pocket protectors:
The night is gilt, but it's also so black
that you cannot see inside the blue flames
that reshuffle the airs, the fears, the lack
of comfort here – He takes his pistol, aims:

The pigeon, caught like a peppery pheasant,
spills out on the ave – the sound unpleasant.
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59

Posted on January 29, 2010 by urbansonnets

In the future you will be a regent

of your own domestic space and worldview –
you'll sing from up under the tides of youth,
raising them to crash splendidly against:
Walls, boundaries, corners that project angles
in shadow, under the crisp, square moonlight –
they're digging in (I can see them), digging
into the silent blocks of still blackness:
The shapes flutter as the eye does shutter,
under the influence of golden blues:
a trilling, searching, seeking contentment,
and the indulgent sounds of pure liquid:
We will take bricks and lay them one by one,
until our hand is forced to block the sun.
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58

Posted on January 28, 2010 by urbansonnets

I see you: blazer, shaking wall-shadow,

a wisp of hair springing forth so wildly
while utterly still – now there's a meadow,
and you are there, singing to a daisy:
Now a table, and light, and beer, and hope,
and my head is spinning from the approach
of truth – and the light flickers – I can't cope,
so I split in full confidence – you teach
and taught the value of a steady dream,
while the planet agitates and revolves
and splinters under its own conscious stream
and splits in faith that creation evolves:
You are this planet – I am just a moon,
a satellite in the wake of your swoon.
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57

Posted on January 28, 2010 by urbansonnets

There's a mask on my face, I mean, a scarf

that I've placed there to push my face aside,
inside the textures of manmade thread-turf,
and I'm baring my soul from the inside:
And only on the inside, only there – 
they can't see from without, they can't listen
to the velour gold and the dark wear/tear 
that line my throat with light and cut skin:
Ayayay, I'm singin' in key for those
who will never hear, but I do it right –
Perfection is no-perception; time flows
against and over/under the grain, right?
One day, one "time" maybe I'll grow strong corn
in a field of my own – a voice is born.
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56

Posted on January 28, 2010 by urbansonnets

Singing from the void, the voiceless utter

a crystal sea of meaning with waves
that reflect the clearest blue and stutter
endlessly above the structure of staves:
In the outside meanings are fluid-like,
turning to vapors under the bright lights
of historical vision, the turnpike
of musicalities and growths or blights:
To develop or sing – a dilemma
unfolds before the blind eye that is one
and three, trined with the black anathema
of plethoric emptiness, of deeds done:
Damages rest unpaid, but I do not
understand currencies unless they slot.
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55

Posted on January 25, 2010 by urbansonnets

Tomorrow begins anew every day,

and it menaces new thoughts of failure;
but I keep waking up for the replay,
and each instant gets deeper, "more-pressure":
But then I laugh and smell the lavender,
look at the flame over the purplish mass–
this dream's to me as flame to Leander–
and flash forward into the quick morass:
A crisp virgin awaits me, and her voice
is mine; a narrow strait lies between us – 
"Cross or die," she says. "It's your only choice."
And I'd die to cross, but which side is us?
Wet and dry, drowned and on ground, I wake up
split by continence, with ground to make up.
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54

Posted on January 24, 2010 by urbansonnets

I feel the currents roaming in my head;

I'm a good person, but the waves keep on
crashing against the walls, crashing instead
of lapping or flooding through to the dawn:
Which is fine, I guess – I do like the sound
of crashing waves, of passing days like nights
in the wintry vacuum of eyes so round
and streets starked by the pallor of white lights:
A golden blankness with a thousand bulbs –
these streets have it – and I'm walking alone,
loving the gray ground as it just dissolves
into the ether of distance unknown:
The grainy mist reminds me of the sea;
I can feel its echo inside of me.
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53

Posted on January 24, 2010 by urbansonnets

Mischief is often a necessity

when things are seeming too structured and fixed,
and the face needs to smile and smirk wryly,
and one's cultural spectrum is unmixed:
I mean, the colors, that is, the color —
the blending together of distinct hues,
so that the celestial-sky pallor
is nixed and the gamut of dreams infuse:
This sticky head with grand thoughts of pigments,
blending clearly in vivid aquarelle,
redressing blank slates with splatters, statements
wordlessly lifted from the darkest well:
The void is like a city at nightfall,
whose Christmas lights cast a meaningless pall.
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52

Posted on January 23, 2010 by urbansonnets

I have a dream and a vision I just

can't collect – so I'll try to write it out;
I'll make my breath pause to feel as I must,
and the words will flutter as I breathe out:
Here goes: I see the sun trace down the sky,
itself, I mean, in the gentle azure:
I see the livid red bricks that stand shy
but proud against the menace of fissure:
But I see a gap, and I crawl right in,
a warp to where the dust is so golden,
in the falling light, and I fall right in,
and I feel bright, as the sounds embolden:
There are vehicles and winds whirring by,
and I feel movement with a fated eye. 
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