SUMMER UNDER A BLACK SUN

In a time of idle plagues
       and cold lust
Smoke rings drift through a deep fog
A frozen sky
       suspended above milky lakes
And the rings bend and ripple
       then break
Spilling countless fleas
       an army of tiny fears
They organize into a phalanx
Cloaked in crimson
       and violet velvet
Following stretching ley lines
       of smoke
Marching through white trees
       thrust from the earth
Like curved bones
       or cats claws through cotton

From where I lay I can see that violent parade approaching
And run to hide in the shallow milky lakes
       on the sticky shores
To wait out this meek season in heavy shadows
       blanketed in yawning nights
Below hundreds of luminescent orbs floating and breathing
Defining unsteady constellations
       refracted as through a misted lens
Like a near forgotten face
       fading behind closed lids
      

IN THE YEAR BEFORE THE END

A dense grey cloud hangs over each day

in the same part of the same sky

but I don't think it bears me any ill will

just a thousand heavy reminders of

You creep into my dreams and mostly

I think its only to stroke your own ego

and remind me of your brilliant plans

to evade the unyielding future while its

Victims feast on the bony carcass of winter

and this bleak and dour solstice twilight

dyes each pill red, melting, viscous

in the blood moon vacant, hiding

In pack formation dozens of empty bottles

relay the confusion of past weeks

paranoia, itching, lonely drifting

through nights of spaceless time

I float from where I do not belong into

quiet velvet comforters and satin throw-pillows

stuffed in my face upon waking dry

mouth and sore back pressed against

Austere white walls extend endlessly

in every direction fading into a distant horizon

where the ghosts of a hundred clouds must hang

heavy with rain, spoiled wine, vinegar

TONIGHT I CANNOT WRITE
for Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can’t write any lines,
no beautiful imagery of my musings on the stars and sky

for the night is dull and still.

Tonight I can’t write any lines,

on remembrances of love come and gone

the night is collapsed through frame and glass

and nothing looks endless through a screen.

Tonight I can’t write any lines,

to recall the longing for better days

when words weren’t necessary

to describe the complexities of simple thoughts

as the night’s forgetfulness is heavy and long.