18 January, 2012

The Tucson Poems

It has indeed been a while, far longer than the 45 days I was ensconced in Arizona for treatment in a chronic pain recovery program. Not to say I am recovered, but it was a great experience. One of the best parts was the amount of writing I did, including over a dozen poems composed in concert with a friend I met, a lovely lady named Abby. Most were crafted on the basis of daily keyword prompts. Here I present a few for perusal. Now if I would continue the trend...

"Expect A Miracle"

We come in as
corpses, drug-worn or
worrisome, weeds plucked from
the gardens of other
people's lives. Roll into the
Mausoleum of Arbitrary
Solitude, we sleep upon
our slabs of
refrigerated shame, and
wait, watch. Our fluids
multiply to the tune of
doctor's orders, a waltz
whistled through the crackle
and call of go-carts cruising
paths of liability as
patients perforate the dusky
wilderness, traumatic
landscapes perfumed with the
flora of emotional disorder, internal
cacophonies crowded in so
close, the evening screams
its restless quietude in waves of
heat that shiver off our
bodies in a cold sweat, a
morphine drip that
pools our dreams with
processing, leveling, e-
quine relapse coping
skills served with a side of
psycho drama to re-
animate the limbs we draw
in close, closer to disperse the
hopes we hide behind, until our
numbered days draw down, and
the world shines again against
our eyes, and we walk
out the way we
came in, but death we leave
at the door, promising, softly, to
see him again, just not


sinking slowly
southward I see the
diminishing filament of
my mind's eye
sputtering yellow to
orange to burnt-
out black, then
shiver a final sigh and
blink out,
out, a bell jar encased in
a vacuum consumed
by a storm until I
relinquish the final
act to the
stage of some
ancient Other's dream,
and wander the
scenery, a plywood
forest of
acrylic eyes that
beckon, "sleep,
sleep, and all
will be forgiven."


I can't be yor
bouncing board for
what's right or wrong in
the world anymore. I can't
be your force field, protecting
you from the Death Star's tireless
tractor beam. I can't
be your outer limits, telling
you when you've gone
too far. I can't be
the map that folds to
assure you when the
Earth's gone flat, or
suddenly balloons, throwing yo
out of orbit again. I won't
be your Laocoon, fighting off the
constrictions of your
crumbling empire. I won't be
your bricks and mortar, your
chimney or foundation, but I
can be your scaffold, your
temporary support, for the
repairs required when
your roof is leaking, when
all your buckets have over-
flowed, and you need respite, for
an evening, from the dry, cold
comfort of your heart's
chamberless hearth.


she entered an albatross, white
wings unfurled for us mere
mariners to behold the
complex crossing of her skies, before
spiraling slantways to crest the
mouth of the sea with
the tender reach of talons too
immersed to find the
safety of her shores. so
she sloped her shoulders and
sank, succumbing to the tug
and pull of a depthless
deep so dark the sun became
a speck among the stars, too
distant for such weary
dreams of waking. but
the storm receded, and
waves slipped from her
lids in sheets, stripped
away the solemn weights she
bore to see that
suffering is not a
sentence for the wounded, but
a cause with which to fill
her wings and alight, un-
even as the breeze may
be, into the bonfire brilliance
of her emerging atmosphere.


watching my past peel
away, soft and
yellowed patchwork
pages pulsing beneath my
skin, unfurling in the
careless sun that exhales
its abdomen to infect
my eyes, so all I see
tinges gold, impossibly bright and
burning irradiated rays across
the thatched exhibit of
days that feel like
dreams gone awry,
but this is life, and life
moves on, so I pull myself
together, slough off this
outer shell of stitched up
hopes, expired expectations, and
find what I fear engulfed by
shadow puppets playing at
what I always wanted --
being, simply,
as nothing less than
the sole and singular self
I was, I
am, whatever I
have the courage
to become.


stars shriek across the sky
echoing blind, faithless promises
to the blinking abyss below

we share the parched, white,
acrid sweat
that holds our memories together
like parchment sewn
of each other's skin

but I can't bring myself
to mourn for you, past
layers of my life -- your
vast expanse, looming
large with forged potential -- lost

its power long before I lost
myself to the
aching swell of
the neverafter.

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