Tempi · duri · per · i · vampiri

I was in a bookstore in, a small one, old, that looks and smells and feels like it knows about books, or wants you to think so. The kind that hides in anything pretending to be a bigger town. So you figure they know what you want when you ask for books on roma/gypsies, and old travel literature. Instead I got an almost blank stare, and pointed to a section to fend for myself. Maybe that's part of the charm of the place. Like the fancy restaurants people go to because they want the waiter to be an asshole. I wasn't interested enough to hunt things down in the end.

The mouse was much more interesting. Little brown guy peeking through holes in the floor, minding his own business. Didn't know he was going to become part of my city mouse/country mouse/Stuart Little fantasy. I saw him in his little holes, with his mouse family running his mouse-errands around the store, and then maybe he's on holiday in Aix... I may have to go back ad ask him his name, just in case I meet his cousin or something.

True Final Love -27
There is nothing to call into question, action, thought or deed,
recollection or half-whispered memory to come between us.
It just doesn't exist... that thing to tear us apart. We are wedded
body to body, hear to heart, our soul is whole, indivisible:
Gloved flesh and mirrored sighs, never we're apart.
Brain waves and smiles, syncopated bliss replete.
Gestured affection matchless, violent ruthless intimacy.
So close, yet so far, I know longer know you are there.
I cannot feel your touch, or feel your breath on my skin.
We are only one, now and there is no other to break
the immeasurable sadness of our lonely steps
that will never be echoed by a lover's foot falls,
or be caressed by a new lover's first touch.
When lovers are one, there is no one to love.

Get it on! -28
Get your learning boots on, and stop fucking surfing the net.
You pornformational sluttery and data whoring must cease,
along with your random access attention deficit shopping.
Give it like it is. Say it as you want it tattooed on your ass
in a nudist colony... "This is who I am!" Right here and now.
Get it on, sweet sister, get it on. And make your ramblings
meaningful. Without purpose, your sorry ass is just a heap
of pale processed GMO protein in gelatinous soup-base.
Forever never dance with only your finger tips, soft flesh,
when you can dance with every pore of your skin.

outstanding desolation -29
Flat flat land upsets my sensibilities,
as blank canvas to painterly desire,
promise both unrealized
and perhaps to be forgotten.
Desolate winter unbrushed by rampant spring
lies mute upon the brown scrub earth
mute testimonials; nothing to be done
to save the past, only hope for the sun
to ignite the green fire hopefully
to smother the stain with life.

The Gypsie Run -30
There's something that I've never forgotten
since I was first struck, how the train
from Syracuse to New York is so similar to the train
from Budapest to Bucharest, and perhaps the same again
from any two points on a forgotten landscape.

Burned out and derelict, windows smashed, brick crumbles
as the train rumbles leaving each vista to its own fate
of post-war industrial rationalization and consolidation.
Forgotten unloved industrial monstrosities beached
after some gothically cataclysmic conflict unresolved.

Signs of life scurry at the edges, forced fences
and broken barriers hint at a new life within
unforeseen by architects and captains of industry
though the Roma, Europe's gypsies, hang fluttering clothes
drying in the windowless frame like America's dreams.

The Seasons - 19
My voice is fractured by the cold,
frozen in darkest night,
and later thawed with spring's bright rain
to summertime's delight.
The summer bakes me sexy tanned,
languid lazy days past,
then the fall with a death's head moon
puts me to rest at last.
[Appreciate the 8/6 meter]

Desire - 20
I feel my lips ripping from my flesh, unwilling
to leave you, even for the moment it would take to smile.
I want to smear your body with my blood, every pore and wrinkle
of flesh bright red and oxygenated with my heart's desire.
I would adorn you body with tufts of flesh
torn with my finger nails from bone.
My tears would anoint you, and the sweat
of my burning brow will make you mine.

errant - 21
I am on a quest
for unspoken mysteries of my heart,
to find lost wisdoms I might have known.
Thoughts from where, thoughts lost
of purpose and meaning, I might find
a new beginning. My quest
among forgotten memories like landscapes
take me past all I never knew I once knew
of fictional hopes long abandoned
of supposed lovers' unnecessary tears.
My journey will be over
when the prize is won
and the daylight has meaning
once again.

Daily Dichotomy -22
Each morning
it begins again,
impossible juxtapositions
that obsess my mind
driving thoughts
into fanciful apprehensions
I cannot escape.
Should I want to lose
the fires of my imaginations?
Sunny Days -23
"Ain't nothing better in the world, you know,
than lying in the sun with your radio..."
Too early to call it spring, the warming
sun has returned with storied memories
that speak to skin and bone, soil and air,
plans and rain.. rhizomatic evocative
messages signaling the return
of the divine light that is seed
to new beginnings.

Write of Spring -24
Sun softly singing month before spring's
crawling green invasion speaks soothing
apologetic regrets, a lover's returning
from a bitter absence, again, with new promises
without assurance that she won't leave again,
yet offering a season of new life warm
forgiving enticing embracing again
I take her in my arms.

Another thought, a paused regret awaiting
on the rocky steps up from the beach
looking back over right shoulder
at the path just taken and the panorama
left behind spreads before me
my life in a view in a moment of a day,
micro-epiphanic revelation:
though I return as spring, offering
"sweet delight"
I'll take you with me when I go.

Administering Love -25
There is no question of your marked fidelity
and your acceptance of all obligatory gestures,
observed and completed. Each and every
gesture demarcated, documented and
conspicuously displayed for each and all
to see according to plan. Each caress
workshopped and methodologically sound,
conveying every appropriated nuanced
meaning, according to plan, vigorous and sincere
heart felt and without reproach, according
to need and duty without fault or complaint.
Such a happy duty is your love,
crying forth and announced, according to plan,
truth and meaning a public pronouncement.

Gare de lyon
Waiting.
Waiting is divine
relief. The train
that has not come.
The cab that brought
me here. Time to kill
as an infinite respite
from doing, or being.
Identity foregone
in the silence. Being nothing,
no one. Past and future erased,
melded with everyone in mass
transit. We are a species
of our own locked in our own
separate world, between here
and there, leaving and arriving,
apart from all others who are
just where they are.
it is a silent world,
sounds without meaning
where each disembodied voice
merely announces possibilities
to move into another state
of waiting somewhere along
the timeless continuum
of being nowhere,
yet.

Faces in the station
Composed and silent watching,
conversations on topics of
movement, schedules and delay,
embarkation and arrival. Short term
thoughts. Immediate intentions.
Transient desires infuse the station
with flickering candle light,
illuminating nothing but the passing
of myriad souls for charon to ferry away.

There is no illusion like today:
hands folded unquestioning,
face composed and serene,
eyes front, aware without expectation
or appearance of concern.
Back straight. Knees together. A novice
model of contemplative patience,
unhurried and unconcerned.

Amid the maelstrom,
good waves and ill,
that swirl vapors
of conflicting desires
and indecisions of possibilities,
the social hegemonies that battle
on all fronts seeking to over whelm.

And yet, when they depart,
the figure remains without
apparent perturbations
as the light of another day
transits the heavens
and leaves for night.

14 Knowability
There is no confusion like the night:
arms twist with golden turns
as jeweled fingers gesticulate
unspeakable stories, promising
horrors of delight and unattainable sorrow.
Shoulders bathed in sweat, breasts glow
and heave under a midnight chemise
as the air is cleaved and swept by long curls
of ebony hair that reflect aught but the moon
and starlight as they while in serpentine frenzies.
Eyes dart as vipers strike--freeze, observe, pause
and strike certain death or uncertain oblivion,
charting existence, mocking or praising
with equal abandon and delight.
Frozen lips never speak, as nothing
can ever be known
again.

Current Mood:	awake
Current Music:	winehouse

It is enough, just to live, without dreams or despair,
past or future; to worry the moment. It is enough,
when faced with the alternative, to reserve judgement,
forego questions or hoped for answers. Just to be
a part of it all. It is a beautiful day. A new voice awakes
me from slumbered contentment, compliant reverie,
this passive repose of someone lost
to expectation and desire.

Man of Action
A rumbled trust growls deep; barrel chested voice
confident, unquestioning of variable truths or meanings;
unconcerned with ulterior alterities or liminal 'facts.
No paralytic notions elicit questions for reflection
to deter the waking lion with a mission to fulfill.
In this micro-maniacial moment you do nothing
but say, "I see..." as you slowly awaken from
an eternity-like slumbering repose , shaking dust
and leaf from your beard, and fixing your good eye
on the goal beyond the horizon, move to act.

Nighttime Crawls
From the moments after midnight,
when the light of day is lost
into a memory from sensation dead.
Before the morning on pre-figuring gesture
pulls the darkness toward dawn.
The seconds lose their purpose and minutes
lose their place as markers of meaning. Gone,
all attachments, social truths, gestures and actions
under many layered nothing that blankets
all intention in a coverlet of sweet oblivion.

It's not dying
Cast off unacknowledged constraints and see
for who we are as much your unaccustomed
mind can without losing all and everything.
It is not dying to kill within yourself something
dear and destructive, that unacknowledged sense
in self that now distantly mirrors a distorted re-vision
of what you never thought you were and now realize
you can not really ever be again, and are wracked
with regret for a now hated past, fearful at a future.

It is not living
That "ever-fix'ed mark" that "alters [not] when it alteration finds."
As change seeks change, like seeking like, a constant flux
and endless reconfiguration of the self to the myriad others
in the co-creation of matrices that sing and swing chaste
around an ever-moving unseen center. A center that itself
has no being except in that it is about which things spin.
Location, that quantum fiction of static potential as of yet
to be placed in motion has no more importance to life
than the last exhaled breath to the living or the lived.
And when will you, once beloved charished calm,
find within that to be into the nothing until all
potentials are finally put into motion.

Current Location:	bed
Current Mood:	tired
Current Music:	Satie: Gymnopédies - 2. Lent Et Triste - Angela Brownridge

Ten more minutes before the train arrives
at the station, the terminus. At the one
solitary point where I will find myself

in ten more minutes. A journey
will be complete. A passage
that seemed endless, a travail
that seemed pointless, after
I realized that the assumed purpose
what not what I'd expected

with ten more minutes to go
until my arrival, I want to go on.

Flowing
Narratives of ruthless lust and never slaked desire
gush unbidden from the love abscessed pen
that has forgotten the gulf between
the tender touch and the ripped flesh,
so lost in her own shame,
poisoned b regret and yet still inside
a young child cries without surcease.
And the words flow forth on a tactless
waste of white that would but wed the lovers
twain when nothing would release the shadows
and the shade by the spring at dawn.

Prayer
Let the morning sun shine around me,
burn me, burn the terrors of the night
that cling as hoary frost on the hem--
wind blown dust that haunts every crevasse
of flesh--cling as sticky cobs that web
my hair and halo this shrouded form.

Let it shine and burn and drive these
thoughts that rise unbidden from memory;
distorted lens and subtle liar.