Dawn

Dawn

 

I lie awake.

 

Awoken from the hell of sleep, I roll fondly to the drink of bourbon, the sweetest grease of dishonor and demise. As the wind howls through the vacant windows of the empty faced buildings to the east, it slashes through the orange curtains that shield the morning with shadow; the darkness is cast from a hidden moon, the echoes of daybreak calling through the stars.

 

How many times have I awoken?

How cool is the day, the morning bright with honor and distraction: I have woken through the earthly pleasures of lust through the noon, but nighttime still haunts the land.

 

Bourbon makes ghosts of men, the beautiful spectres that ride the railways to the east in dim hours, drunken and unashamed. Too many souls have fallen to the vermin of sleep, the deathly cool that awaits the pit of human souls in the quiet of the trainway.

 

I have fallen from the glory of motion, the bliss of fury and love; in the evening, the young stroll unabashed in their foolish affections, their timeless joys alive on the wings of springtime pollen and rain.

 

How many souls have fallen?

 

Bourbon takes the hearts of men, the couth of women. Black stockings ride the waves of a lonesome gust in the horrors of midnight, only to return in the quiet of a new dawn, a new life, a new world.

 

Bourbon takes the lost souls into her arms; fear falls away from the depth of the spirit, walls crash like the deathly philistine of love and mercy. Who falls unashamed?

 

I have fallen.

Forgive me father.

 

The night has taken all that it has needed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Joy of Night

The Joy of Night

 

Love is a funny trouble; it never tastes the way it breathes.

 

The taste of honey, milk, affection. All that is loved is death in the ways of the world; the glory of love pulls from the chimings of rest. The black smoke from chimneys rises, the scent of burning wood. I have forgotten the taste of sugar; brine and liquor are all that remain.

 

All that remains is the glory of what once was, now dead in sleet and slumber, anxious in it's way. Death comes often but reigns unchecked, hungrily stalking the shadows, the old and the sick, the youthful and stupid.

 

I light a cigarette to welcome my demise; I praise the remnants of glory that I will leave, even if only in foolish breezes that run from the day. Only in honor shall I live, only in honor shall I die.

 

Those that have passed before me have known everlasting life in the shadows of pewter and gold, but as time rises, the crumble of steel and love grows great, diminshing the blessed artifacts of might.

 

I have loved.

 

To live is love lost, to die is to be found. Love rises in the smoke of buildings, the lonesome couriers of waste and ruin. The beauty that I've held rose quietly from the depths of my heart and fell like a hundred thousand deafening eggshells in the rising of the moon.

 

No one can know sorrow until love destroys them; there is honor in death and glory in destruction; all lives are lost but once, there are many days to live.

 

It should be in the sorrows that we rejoice, not the affected troubles of joy and moonlight. All things quiet and reserved live to revere the shadow: it should be in death, not life that we give our pain.

 

Joy is a bounty of tears and falsehood.

Let us rejoice in the coming of midnight, or do nothing at all.

 

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.

Bernstein

Bernstein

 

In the nighttime, all that isn't bolted with memory flies to the west.

 

It is said that the wild things march, seething with a beautiful agony that echoes through the moonlit avenues until the dawn rides through the alleyways with an undescriptive bliss and lust; the wild things march carefully along the fetid cobblestone with sunken eyes and crusted lips.

 

The hearts of these creatures can only be described as evil; those that torture the winds with magnanimous envies and carnal parades on a carnival of power and avarice. No one knows the glorious madness which suffers the pain of personhood, the depth of the woeful despise that wretches the lonely moonlight when the stars have left the sky to lie in their hovels of comfort and wicked blessings.

 

Love is a funny trouble.

 

I would wait with scratching fingers until blood poured down my wrists from angst and infatutation, hungrily dialing cellular phones in the darkness of my filth and my frustrations unspeakable now that ages have passed and manhood lies before me.

 

The wild things march at night; when dawn comes to rest in the sunshine of the day and the old replies linger on a drunken screen like a piano with bourbon in it's heart, twisting the classical beauties into majestic violence, a heartbreak too large for the tiny rooms of this earth.

 

I keep falling in love alone; lone triumphs mask the tyranny of night, when all things have come to rest in their loving demise; those that reap havoc from the fields of their fury while pondering the quiet calls of the redbirds through the trees of the vacant parking lot.

 

No phone calls return and in the dim glow of amourous distractions, I hate myself, my many lives, my body, my home.

 

The wild things march at night in the homes where nobody knows, beneath the haunting luminescence of the retail awnings, smoking cheap cigarettes and cheaper downfalls, drinking liquor too strong to numb the loud reelings of a dangerous world into a lull of sleep and warmth. The homesick winds roll troubled and I watched my life pass before my eyes; the many loves, the many hates, the swing set of my youth.

 

Innocence can only be taken. The rest is a duty of God; blood and fire rule this world.

 

My many loves can only be described as loathe. I await the stillness of morning, the stillness of an honorable death, the axilaration of numbness, sinking through my sheets into a lonely hell on east 16th street waiting for the day.

 

In the noon, the wild things rest. Their anxious sorrows drift to the promise of some day and the morning cools to the rain of spring.

 

I rest in the noontime reigned by sleep only to awake for a wretched meal of truth; the quiet angst of morning that slips insidiously into night.

 

I envy those who still love the world.

 

 

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.

 

 

Colossus

Colossus

 

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.

 

Give Not

Give Not

 

Some people hold money like it was coffee in the morning, like a bottle of Bourbon in the night;

they hold it with stiff arms and stiffer necks, they hold it like a newborn.

 

Money has existed since men wore skins, when shoes were ragged on the feet of kings.

 

There are worse things than dying; there are worse things than hate.

Money is the sweetest evil, acidic in it's taste.

 

Some people spend money like it will never be gone; like a battered lover balanced on one leg

and bowing on the other;

they spend it like it was their lover's eyes, a love can be replaced.

 

A dollar or a dime can do more damage than a weapon crested with an arsenal of love in it's chest, waiting to

expose the whole town to the violence of dreams and the everlasting despair of infatutation's crystal fountain.

 

Money is a dream, like dreams it can explode

it can wither and die like a grapefruit put aside

for the meal that will never be eaten by

a mortal in their prime.

 

It is a dime sized hole that sinks boats, that sinks dreams.

 

Families burn, families scrounge angrily in the refuse of the day break.

 

Money will sink every ship; it is looser than lips wet with water.

A meal of love will bow before the promise of a fortune.

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.

The Dishonorable Man

The Dishonorable Man

 

Who has kissed the moon by lips untouched by life?

 

The dishonorable man wants to know.

 

The dishonorable man; who eats when he is full, when the desire of rum and flesh has passed he will feast of the troth of a spiritual poverty.

 

The dishonorable man; who shuns the sick and the weary. The man who loves life with two hands, speaking with two hearts that have twined in the humid summer of his heart.

 

Let him be filthy, if filth is his life. Let him be wicked still; let him never tire of his powers and live in the brightness of his falsehood.

 

He would forsake his father's name a thousand years for one day to scream his love to the world and have it be heard over the howls of wayward hounds and the sombre brays of the lovesick drunkards, unblemished by mortal shame and impiety.

 

He would walk from the home of his loves for another as flames burn the dreams of lost years to the ash of honey and despair. He would sing over the holiness of choirs with a voice of rigid steel, an endless might unknown to his relations and unearthly to those in love.

 

Let him live in falsehood if falsehood is his home. Let him live in wrath like a chieftan in the hovels of a heathan diety; for a thousand years let him live without remorse.

 

The years shall pass in death and in life.

 

The filthy will be judged;

the wicked will be mocked;

the liars will be beaten;

the wrathful will live in shame.

 

I am an unholy man,

a cheat, a liar.

 

I cannot hold hands with any redeemer or any weapon of kindness. I cannot judge what is below me, or the thousand pounds of steel that rains as promise above my head.

 

Who will come to judge the dishonorable will learn to judge themselves;

the wicked man alone can be the judge, alone in the sickbed of his age.

 

 

24

24

 

On my seventh birthday, my father bought me an action figure, a little action man with hair like mine and eyes like mine, brown skin and black hair.

 

I thanked him endlessly: we didn't have much in those days. We had a little mantle where me and my brother kept our playthings; we couldn't reach them and our parent's gave out our toys as rewards.

 

The fireplace was shut up, but it breathed cold air into the house, a saw-toothed evil that sought to destroy the closeness of the family. We all bundled up in seperate corners of the house under large down blankets that wrapped our frozen faces and protected our frigid noses from the deathly chill.

 

I would play with my action figure on the weekends and on winter recess. I would sink him in the water and pretend that he could swim with me on Sunday baths when the bubbles ran thin. My father had saved the meager wage he had earned as a weekend pleasure for his child as he watched sci fi movies and drank from his deep blue can of cheap beer.

 

I remember the day perfectly; the sun was setting over the shedding sycamore trees and the birds shrieked their last calls for joy over the silky outlines of tenements; their windows shone through the looming snow clouds like a tired lamppost with troubled eyes and a deep grief that bore into the porches below.

 

I broke my doll.

 

Its head fell off while I was playing a hero game against the creatures of the woodland night: it just popped right off like a cheap dream and fell to the dingy carpet where the children ate their meals.

 

I didn't know what to do. I screamed inside; I didn't want my father to find out. He had worked so hard.

 

I rushed into the backyard, forgetting to put on my coat or my light up, knock off adidas. I found a quiet spot in the brush, a spot where no one would think to look and the neighbor's basset hound couldn't smell. I buried him in a quiet corner with a rusted table spoon from the kitchen cupboard. I went back inside.

 

A few days passed and I thought he'd never find out, but on a snowy thursday evening he asked where it went. I sat silently.

 

He asked again, then again, then once more, his voice slowly rising to a scream. His eyes were red as a butcher's core and his nostrils flared revealing silver hair that shined even in the dimness of the room.

 

I started weeping and I told him.

 

I'll never forget his face: it swelled with rage, then slowly shrivelled and compressed into something so small that it might be swept away in a nighttime wind and whisked to the outerreaches of the town to never be seen again.

 

I stood there confused. I'd never seen someone shrink so small, I'd never felt so large. He rolled into the terra cotta love seat and cracked his deep blue can of cheap beer without a sound. I silently went upstairs to bed and layed down, wondering what it all meant.

 

 

Solace

Solace

 

In reclusion there is solace.

 

Its is a home for the wanderers in a soul so shrunken from the worldly tightenings on the chest; civil disfunction bounds through the asphalt green, fiendish lust carries on the sidewalks wet with the tears of prior evenings and honorable woes, let those in exhile not be judged.

 

I have walked through the valley of shadow, the meadows of low lying evils; I have cast my body to the dogs, my mind to the sick and disgusting mad, even breathed halted breaths of cerualean tar that twisted into the rib cages of wealthy cowards. I fear the night; the shadows thrown from God's feet like a hell of fire and ice, a bounty of malice where the wild things roam.

 

I fear the darkness:

 

the streams of whiskey that course from frightened tongues

the lonesome tom cats, day drunk with a powered strut, crashing from the

molten tin of the fire escape and falling into the crowd of devils and horrors.

 

I fear the moonlight:

 

where the deluge of tears shines through the windows agape

where the ruins of an early spring fly farther through the midnight on the

weapons of young kings and the bosom of

a hungry goddess.

 

When the nighttime rolls, I'll be there to catch it, to capture it in the misted silver of a wide mouthed jar of rum, hopelessly praying for morning to rise once more and shun the hundred shadows that linger at my doorstep.

 

When morning comes I will be the one to run home once more and watch the night from the window of a jar, the one to gaze through merciless tears in a room with closed curtains and cold wood floors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Love Song of my Youth

The Love Song of My Youth

 

When I was young I would sing.

 

A little tune from a mild home in a whistling aisle of brownstones along the way to the train yard. Youthful lungs crooned a loud love that echoed along the dew dripped branches of the poplars and found it's solace in the timid hollows of the sycamores. It was a song of love: a song written by my mother, a song that she would hum to me, a baby cradled in her womb, the vibrations courting my unborn innocence as mercy to the world.

 

As I grew, the song continued: as a young man I would keep it in a backpack too small to hold it's power. It would leak to the snow from my frayed crimson pockets and seep into the gutters, wet with the slush of infinity.

 

As the years grew by, my heart craved the stoops of my country, but I was swept west on winds of trouble and misfortune. The tune would travel along the canyons as a reckoning mist and screech through the sandbelts as a deafening howl. The song was losing it's love.

 

Through the ages I wept: I was called to the mountains where the doors were always shut, where the feces of the daybreak held the windows on Christmas morning, where the sun set with shuttered eyes that blissfully mocked the disasters of youth. I was held in a room too small for love and too cold for the homesick melodies of a frightened child, whose penance for living was death. Still, the song became a terror-lined fume, smoking with the angst of a malicious triumph that clubbed my soul into a lonely submission. Time won't spare the innocent; it only loves the night.

 

I returned home defeated.

 

I wandered the alleyways along the hovels of the dawn searching for love in the echoes of dim light linoleum. My heart was still in the wind. On new years, the tune became ripped at the seams, the cerulean mist of cheap cigarettes smearing the edges with the black of tar and the tired fingerprints of a living despair. As I laid down, the tune became a lullabye of what was, carrying me along the periphery of dreamtime, but letting me fall a thousand miles below.

 

It is the summer of my life, but yet it feels so cold. The winds can no longer carry my fancies but hiss a wicked laughter over the hills. The song has grown tired: the words have left my soul, traveling south on the foolish breezes of faraway glamour and stranding me in an oasis of the weary. The wind has taken so much, but now my face is weathered and old, I am tired. Sometimes I sit at a lonely triangle with birds as vagrant companions, the howls of nocturnal vehicles rushing by: sometimes when the moon is full and the clouds glow sallow, my mother sings the love song of my youth and the melody of the famished daybreak carries me over the hills to my quiet home.