Marigold of Morning

Marigold of Morning


Marigold of morning: the love of a beautiful death;

Marigold of morning, the hungry nighttime awaits your bloom.


In the merciless rains of springtime, evening cools the meadows gracefully like an undying love in the belfries of my heart. The stars watch silently as if they could fall from their celestial perch and dance along the avenues, free from the troubles of a crawling evening.


Marigold: I love you. Love is the beautiful demise that tumbles from the sun to the seat of the blessed, climbing the torrents of a youthful heart as a gracious terror. Who can halt the sunset? Who would chain the rain clouds to the pillars of men forsaking the modest wonder of a bountiful sky?


The numb of tribulation carries me along the winds; through the hungry gusts of a crimson nighttime like a grocery bag fallen hopelessly ill of the amourous desires cast by the listless clouds.


Marigold, how could you?


How could you love that which is unchained?

How could you breathe our love to another soul, a love that now travels along the vanishing gutters to the daybreak, wandering the lonesome alleyways until noon turns night?


Marigold: the beautiful death.


She is not a flower of indefinite beauty, but from the garden she is the one I picked. Let the whispering ruins of spring wash the city dry;

let the haunted loves of the timid scream a triumphant howl over the whimpering crowds of Broadway;

let the morning come with cleanliness and grace, with bright humors of a timeless victory;


all that can be asked lives in the drying petals of my love. All that is just is the beautiful anguish of death. It lives in the homesick gusts of a lonely fall.


All that is treasured will crash to the seas like a weighted moon on the tenements of a lovesick city.


Marigold of morning; the love of all will perish.

The Ice Cream Man

The Ice Cream Man


The Ice Cream Man drives up the winding road every summer evening with horns alive and blaring. Every evening his truck strolls along the avenue and the roar of happy children creates a silence in the air that screams to the parting skies as the clouds storm hungrily along the outlines of oak trees.


There is a boy.


He is a poor boy that stands by the curb, sadly shuffling the dust of the fallen daybreak through the famished gutter with a worn, unlaced tennis sneaker that screeches on the rough of the pavement. When all of the children leave with the contentment of sugar, the Ice Cream Man decides to give the boy a free cone, to which the boy screams and hollers, then runs hastily along the avenue with red cheeks and hair on end.


The next day, the children crowd around and the boy stands sheepish, again at the curb with arms folded and eyes to the floor. The Ice Cream Man gives him more, as he feels charitable, he has a surplus. Again the boy runs.


As days pass and weekends stream by, the boy grows sick, perhaps of an allergy, perhaps of unclean hands: the Ice Cream Man feels compelled now. His charity is his love, all things beautiful are the laughter of a child, the smiling eyes that dance away from poverty, the defenseless hopes that whistle in his screams. Maybe he doesn't realize that he is making the boy sick, maybe he doesn't care. The boy's smile keeps him alive, but now there doesn't seem to be much to live for.


The boy's windswept heart has diminished. He knows he is sick, he knows that he is poisoning himself. He knows that the Ice Cream Man wants to make him feel cared for. He does not want to disappoint. His eyes have forgotten the sight of love, the singing carols of the joyous truck no longer birth a lovesick moan in the bowels of his chest but they make him squeal. All he can see is the darkness when the lights have gone home and all he can hear is the freewheeling violence of the straying tunes that whisper in the wake of the truck's depature. All he wants is that joy, that feeling of warmth, the love. But he knows it will kill him.


The boy no longer sulks at the corner, but haunts the alleys with a hunger in his chest, a never cured sickness in his heart and ears that hear pale music drifting from the moon painted fire escapes that travels down below.


The Ice Cream Man is confused. He tastes the vanillas, the chocolates, the syrups, the sprinkles. The rainbow ices, the popsicles, the candied ice: there is nothing there that can't cure the soul. He weeps for the boy behind the wheel of the laughing van, he weeps on rain days when the kids are away with their toys. But the summer isn't over. At the corner there will be another boy with scuffs on his sneakers. There always will be.






Blood and fire, fire and ice:

in times of war bring peace with you.


Carry it in a coin purse amongst metal shadows,

silver metaphors more poetic than the smell

of birth.


Carry peace in the flames of introspection,

let the tumults of the soul die down in the prospect

of dawn.


Let it burn like a heathen altar,

let it scream and rage like a drunkard

in the night;


carry it as a cross before the waters,

still with the stink of rancid fish,


let it carry you through the tunnels of wrath,

the grapes of seduction will frighten the starving

pious, those who have not loved.


In times of war carry peace around your neck,

but tuck it into the collar of your shirt.


Wear peace around your neck but hide the gold that it brings.


Peace can be stolen, raped, burned and whipped;

peace can tear down bridges when used as the scabbard

to a sharp edge.


Bring peace in times of evil,

bring peace in times of war;


peace can only guide the way as a love light alive

but a moth unto a flame will use peace as a disguise.



Delirium Waltz

Delirium Waltz


Down street march on legs struck lame is beauty in it's heart; the silence of a drunken waltz brings terror to the mind. The wandering fellow laughs at the young and the foolish, those to whom sorrow is still unknown. He laughs at the young and industrious, the children of a happy love, the affairs of men and women.

The drunkard was born of two thousand hairs; a dreaded ball in the belly of a virgin. He cannot know love but the love of a hungry woman; he cannot know love but of a whistful year, lost to the terrors of whiskey and smoke. The drunkard cannot know a heart other than darkness, drunk of the teat of dishonor and wonderlust.


He marches unashamed.


Do you hear the demons, can you see the pythons?

Do you hear the thousand angels screaming?


The liquor store is an unearthly trouble; a home for the dead ones and the wasted spirits.


He cannot see, he cannot hear. He cannot taste but the burn of satisfaction which troubles his soul with a wicked waterlogged hatred.


The drunkard march on down street falls, the drunkard is doomed to die.


Let the drunkard love himself; let him find joy in the troubles of this world; let him love the hollowed flowers and the punch drunk moon; let him whisper away his years to the whistle of the livid express trains that bellow their anger like a thief in his judgement.


Let the drunkard be wicked, for wickedness can be the greatest kindness in the hands of a child. Let him be foolish, let him know joys and woes, happiness and song.


On his march on down street he assualts the air with a cry for forgiveness but the stillness of midnight is his only answer.


Let him be hurt and let him know freedom lest judgement fall upon your soul like a parade of seasick ghosts.


I Fell in Love with a Shadow

I Fell in Love with a Shadow



I fell in love with a shadow. 

A dark haired beauty with a jet silver undistinguishable from the shade of love: the depth of her tenderness echoed happily through the everlasting sorrows of spring and danced along the streaks of morning careless and unannounced.  Her hands played on the gentle leaves that rose from the red maples, she blessed the wilderness with a quiet harmony, victoriously filling the holes in the fragile trees and warming the burrows of malicious vermin that preyed on the hungry nighttime. 

We rolled from the wood to the wall, laughing all along the itching weeds, their haunting vermillion flashing in the sunshine of the foggy noon which washed down the clouds and the foolish breezes alive in the pollen fall, breathing in the mist.

All others were cast from the sky with the weather of our shuttered eyes: our eyes grew squinted in the sunshine of our love but the day would soon fall like a thousand nightmares on the wretch of the earth, the harem masquerading as life drenched with the tears of the howling dogs and the sallow moon.

She was a shadow and shadows fall. She grew longer and farther, thinner and then clear, cast from the grime of my feet like a vagrant dream in the darkness of midnight.

I realized that she was my own shadow.

A thousand goodbyes can fall on deaf ears with cushions of well wished anguishes and slow breath prayers but prayers cannot damn a memory or heal the years gone. I kissed the darkness of her dimming freckles, the depth of reeling waters caught in her smile, the light of dawn playing on her fading hair.

Somethings can kill you with less than a word; the word is uttered slowly as life and then vibrates in the stillness of silence.

No shadow lies in the morning and my quiet loves shrivel in the cruel struggles of a silver dew.

I fell in love with my shadow but shadows cannot love. They can only mimic the width of tongues as they mouth the meaningless words of morning, the words that lull from the winds of love into the ears of the young and foolish with fingers wrested from the aching muscles and yellowing fingernails of a love that time has forgotten.

Shadows cannot love.


The Song Without a Name

The Song Without a Name


Pain is the heart of men, the heart of women, the heart of gold; beautiful ruin is the bliss of youth, those with aching bones and sunken eyes.


His name was forgotten in the pages of love notes, now yellow and cast to the wind. Love destroys all, the hopes of fathers are null in the candle light of dawn; all that arises is the victorious midnight on a chariot of words; words of disgust cloak themselves in candy, the candied hearts of remorse and vicious affections.


I would have loved him as I do now but sunken eyes tell a story that could not yield a thousand words; the broken tongues of the joyful mock daily as the windows flash death across the sky of the blissful evening, howling their wicked love songs in the mirror of the moon.


There is one word that can't be named. Like an unspeakable disease, the disdain of night falls gentle into the fertile wombs of the evening star, now black and withered like the loves of my age.


The immortal deaths and dishonors reel happily in the face of love, laughing joyously and filling their shadows with seeds of envy. The warmth of a mother is unheeded by the trails of life and life's teachings. Only the violent tempers are left alive as innocence withers in the womb and no one will ever know it's name.