Flore de Victoria

2000

It was the darkest night of the year
or the longest at least
and yet the fullest moon in one hundred.
I was privately searching for my very own solstice
amongst the star bright human light
when he shattered my crystal fantasy.

He stopped suddenly and stooped,
reached a gloved hand down
gingerly plucking the slender blue
treasure from the snow, hardly noticeable.

“It’s an ‘H’” he said, rather sheepishly, “they’re softer...”
while displaying it at arms length, point up
with irresistible boyish triumph.
I was relieved that at least one of us
had discovered millennial meaning.

Negabliss

Archetype 1 (at a Jackson Pollock exhibit)

She, covered
in Gotham City black
pink under, yellow hair pulled back
intent upon number 11A 1948
(black white and gray)
and I, today the cad
busy
fomenting a first foray
until she exited, without the black
hailed
and walked away.

An earlier version of this poem appeared in the "HazMat Review," Vol. 4, Issue 1 Fall/Winter 1999.

Missed

Missed
missing
mistletoe-
she glittered me once more.
Last time through
that dice shake
quick take
minuet
and that crushed
velvet
door.

Stll life-Bean and Egg

Darkest Night of the Year

darkness is not fear
the absence of light is near
closer than you think

Riles Rum

No rile, no roil
five strings not strung
neck’s warped and the chores
undone, undone
all that which lay
before us, become
the chemistry, the physics
the knowledge, the sum,
of the victory won
before the report of the gun
the farthest, the furthest
the fastest, the fun
the fans we’d have
the wounds we’d heal
the glory we’d halve
the truce we’d seal
the songs, the songs,
the sonnets all gone
let slide to nuptials
and sunk to nativity
lost in the triune
and the fear of a prophesy
and the fear of proclivity
for strife, for wife
for riff or for rife
and for the beat
of a distant drum...
and the rum.

Crucify

Christmas Scarecrow

Vow...
just say the rope

is ours.
Tell me now
that the bend

these bends

this bend

is only ours
that those innocent

tics

tocs

hours
at the water’s edge
belong to you
and to me
and to the white

geese
and whatever they see
saw...
you liked the straw
the rustic

rebel

roustabout
of it all
while I trudged

through mounting irony

self-conscious
like now
a scarecrow
naked
in the snow.

Piano Forte

Stilted same few chords
hymnal hypocrisy
Fur Elise in five keys
but the hammer hits futile
and the strings all flaccid
lacking tenacity or tensile strength
or thought
in the sameness of this
a perpetual coda
treble clef
trouble cleft
and the audience seems all
to have gone in
but alas, play on
in cavalier cut-time now
monkey-grinder monotonous
for free.

Reaching

A Will

They won't ...
When will they?
Will they when?
They will then.
Then they will.

Enshrining Autumn

Like seeking firmest fruit
amongst the pithy
the bruised and unripe
I gather them-
her October words
burnished fallen blushes
strewn amongst the thyme-
and fit them safe
nodding
between waxy glassine windows.

Fishing You

The leaves clog the flow
and the creek is moving slow
red
green
orange
yellow

The words make the gesture trip
and the hand is held in hesitant
stop
go
caution
slow

Eddie where is your air
Edify
the water grows stagnant
under the jewels of Autumn.
And all the time I was fishing you.

Flutterby

Repeated recognition
faint
latent
under the din of living
fluttering.

Gentle wonder rhythm
delicate
brushing
gracing the inner
beating.

Syncopation harmony
waxing
waning
counterpoint
chrysalis.

...out of the bag

Blog a secret
and its not a secret.

Tell your wishes
and they won't come true.

Keep a promise
and you might find heaven.

Tell a lie
and the lines all skew.

Its out of the bag
it can't crawl back in...

there's mud on your belly
from the places you've been.

I'm Back

When do I get off?
Merry-go-round
doe see joe
positive feedback loop.

Thoughts like this
on reincarnation
are similar
to upc codes.
Unintelligible.
But of great importance
to someone besides me.

This time
I had it right
I thought.

This time
the path was clear
I thought.

This time
there would be peace
I thought.

This place
looks just like the clearing
in the woods
where I was lost.

This place
is that place.

I'm back.

When do I get off?
Merry-go -round
doe-see-flow
positive feedback loop.

Jack-O-Lantern

The prince is hollowed-
like a gourd.
Memories rattling
about like seeds.
The eyes seem vacant
yet dimly glows
a candle, a flicker
of need.

Who

I'm not melting
and I ain't movin' up
who I am is indian
red skin
flint-knap feeling sinew
and the rhythm within
which makes me blink
which makes me black
light skin
quarter-nappy hair
and "fight the power" within
to at last be free
so listen to me
this is who I be.