urbansonnets

Unleashed fragments of dust and of dander
that burn through eyes, noses, chests and drawers,
like tornadoes of fear, clouds of cancer
in sideways assaults, in pairs and in fours:
To breathe is to scream across a broad void
while jumping into chasms of black tar;
each breath is a pause, and life has just toyed
with its dusty old knife, leaving a scar:
There is fire inside, and water too,
to spit churns them both and burns through the lungs;
one can glimpse, perhaps, what he ought to do,
but the ladder to action's missing rungs:
There are gasps of sadness, gasps of fury,
and longings for thoughts that once did flurry.

There are dead sounds at the foot of this hill,
sounds entombed under ages of longing,
sounds that echo, soft, in the night-time chill,
dead cries ringing and bunching and thronging:
There is a web of blue light stretching forth;
at the foot of this hill, it ensnares me
in its weave of sound, its phonemic hearth;
it mutilates my mind, twists me, tears me:
I stood once atop; a stone tore me down,
lanced from the hot hand of a spurned lover;
her anger, it seemed, was a glowing crown,
a red aureole with a slight hover:
I fell back with a shout as the sun rose
in violets and orange, and the time froze.

Approach the corner with caution, with faith.
Tell the seer what you'd like to know. Feel
the message in the sound of the great stretch
he does with his back and hands, under the peal:
Adjust yourself, your plans and your thoughts,
so precious to you that you were nearly lost.
Oppose the risks that are meted out.
Increase the feeling no matter the cost:
In a stretch of the hands, the back, the neck,
the body can tell so, so many things
about the love, the loss, the luck, the steps
in abysses of culture, abysses of wreck:
Untoward action, unseasoned affect,
habitual passions the mind must reject.

There is no life to lead but a good one.
Once upon a time, there was nothing here.
Now the time has shown itself like the sun,
shining in the face of the watch of fear:
Never have the angles slid across like this,
against the template of time, instructions
always already given, always already
here despite the force of our predilections:
Funny thing is, the world is constant and fair,
flighty times float above the ground and jump
in unison with the faith that appears and stares
at the rings of the trees on the new stump:
Fair faces correct all the misdirections
of life and time – all the indiscretions.

Jump for joy! The spring is here. Winter died.
They burnt her effigy with flaming straw,
and I laughed inside the plaza then cried.
If only I could see the things she saw:
A lot goes down under lock and steel key
when winter shrouds the world from our clutches.
Colors are muted in pale reverie,
all outside steps are heard since ice crunches:
No harvest, no heather, no hope, no haps,
No heroes, just hoarfrost – we must stay warm –
No haltertops, it all just stops and craps
out. If we could we would demand reform:
Winter is dead and with it its secrets;
spring is hot – every opening secretes.

Body, spirit, mind. Three things that I need.
I run in the mornings. The dew so nice.
It shines on the dead leaves. I watch my feet,
careful not to fall. I must trust my eyes:
Possessions, work, reputation. Crucial
things for the responsible man.
I disappear before it gets racial.
My darkness is my only masterplan:
Relations unchosen, chosen, mental.
I lost my mind in undying classrooms.
I build it back with fancies so gentle
I will not be living when thought resumes:
And endings. Of body, soul and of life.
O Hand of God, lend me your liquid knife!

The mores of this time are all askew.
One hand smites the face whose brain directs it;
one hand waves always at the plane that flew
away – bearing girl and dreams – rejects it:
What does this mean? Well, there are no morals
because their abundance means we lost them
like you lost her – her lips red like corals
while yours are wrecked, teeth like jetsam, flotsam:
What does this mean? Well, just give up the game
and withdraw yourself to Northern Cali
and plant a seed, and watch it grow in shame
because you do not grow, you just dally:
The mores of this place are like a shoe.
Wear them too long and get lost in doo-doo.

The cat is cute, it's white and flexible,
it jumps on counters, commandeers couches,
it walks in circles so illegible
you can't know if it reneges or vouches:
You spray its face with water every time
it jumps on your most sacred surfaces
and it runs from the water every time
until it forgives your foul purposes:
The white cat in your lap, digging its nails
in your thighs while pushing and kneading paws;
You don't mind the pain because where pain fails
the purring feline forgives you your flaws:
You scratch it behind its two whitish ears,
and a pair of blue eyes just disappears.

You lie when you pick up the phone. You lie
when your heart skips a beat. You lie when you
claim to know me, each glimpse won on the sly.
You lie when you try to make one from two:
You laugh when there is nothing to look at,
when the sky overhead is blue and white,
and when the flowers are shiny and flat,
swaying flatly in the breezy sunlight:
All meaning is fantasy, a figment
of selfish deception and self-deceit.
You lie when you realize you really meant
something that is honestly less than neat:
It was a nice day. Sweat got in my eyes.
I was truly moved and deeply surprised.

The waves opened up before me in blues
so deep, so salty I could taste the pain
of a thousand years of the breathless hues
of death mixed with blood, fire, ice and rain:
In that instant of triumph I nearly
went under, almost left behind my spoils,
my name, my life, my son; I saw clearly
that my dreams paled before the sea’s dark coils:
Then my sense and senses returned to me;
and turning around, I saw myself there –
I was above the earth, as one with sea
and sky – I saw myself with fire for hair:
The smell of salt was so strong in my nose
that I returned to life’s most mortal clothes.