I am a house with no one inside
but that sole inhabitant that years ago died.
With my ghost voice I called and invited you in
that someone might live in this house again.
But the visitors that come never stay
and these ghost gray lips grow grayer gray
till the day they are not heard anymore
though I still sit screaming behind the door.
The light shines through the shutters
revealing the yellow latticework
that is invisible in the daylight
and what if the shadow shapes of what is not there
are the outlines of this invisible world
available only to the waking few?
they feel the latticework on their face
now on their hand
and wait for some small shadow to climb it
a burglar in the night.
Write write write
hasn’t this fight already been fought?
if I had any thoughts to write
maybe I could write when I ought
The rain on the windowpane
blurs the girl standing out in the lane
or the face in the window of the train
and the poet would sit here and feign
to contemplate the world’s pain, then — halt
look to a raindrop as to a grain of salt.
Is it not a slight madness
that we take this prescription sadness?
Perhaps if we had had less
of this rain we’d be glad — yes
and not mourn the sky’s vastness, as though every cloud
were draping the world in the blackness of a shroud.
Wouldn’t we all stay in Childhood if we could choose?
Instead we are trapped in reminisces, wishing
they hadn’t fooled us with the words they’d used
“growing up” for a person diminishing.
Sure, we are wiser, and not all adults are rotten,
but who doesn’t long for some previous self?
like we could step back into them, if only they hadn’t gotten
so maimed through the years
now sitting there
like shrunken skulls on a forgotten shelf
Stories were so much easier to write
when they had nothing to do with me
when sorrows were concocted to cast upon strangers
and I played Deity.
But even that writer god
must become tormented with age
and come to long for the days when she
extracted her pain from another´s page.
Oh for years she prayed and waited
for some occurrence to punctuate her listless days
but when that fateful moment came
she found that there was nothing to say.
How easy it was, that old false despair,
her voice of mimicry as beautiful as a bird´s;
how difficult now to cut a piece from her own self
send it on the wind, never to be heard.
There is no poetic justice in life
but here is a justice for sure:
all those false sorrows which she spawned
have now returned to become hers
And unless you had heard her before
you would not know of this:
that the silence she now devotedly sings
is the saddest sound to touch those lips.
Happy Poem in Your Pocket Day!
They placed the happiness in her palm
like a crumpled hundred dollar bill.
She swallowed her smile, without any qualms,
and traded it in for a handful of pills.
I must now decide
Sand down the edges
–understand you are
making an argument.
ideas is not convincing.
Here you have lost
has to be found.
sake (not ours).
Manipulate the truth
–use what tools you have;
symmetry is always lost
if you dive too deep.
“Just write,” I said
but they looked at me with dread
before filling their cups with words
and then we poured
together our word-hoard
into something particularly absurd.
“Remember our goal,”
I cried to your hole from my hole,
“We can stitch it together later”
but this Frankenstein of ours
his face looks sour
and he’s got the eyes of a traitor.
Perhaps I’m too eager
to place the meager
words there on the page
but surely these words are proof — breath
ideas that’ve already been talked to death
like Lazarus returning to the stage.