Skin Deep

I sheered the black sheep,
That wool itched so, anyway.
It weighed me down in the heat of your indifference.
Woven cloak of your shame.
Your shame,
My other name.
Awarded to me like a trophy,
By you, my referee
How dare I not do as you did,
Unpresentable me.
Not draped upon the arm of a rich man,
Not sipping from a golden shoe.
Pride is a subtle thing,
A fragile wing on a tiny creature.
And subjectivity forgotten,
In the law of your land.
The tragedy of funerals had,
with empty graves.
Burying the dead,
while they still walk and talk,
But not to me.
And what beauty I inherited from you,
You, who bore me here.
I can only show
In pictures
and a looking glass.
Faded memories
And broken dreams.

Forgiveness

01

 

 

 

 

 

And the Moon said,
I forgive the Sun for not shining his light upon me all of the time,
for it is the lack of light that gives me my definition.

And the Moon said,
I forgive the darkness for not hiding me thereby betraying my presence,
for it is the shadow that gives me my fulfillment.

And the Moon looked to the great Seas,
and said,
You mesmerize me with your undulations as you dance to my music.
But in that, I forgive you for that which you reflect back to me,
All that I hate in you, for it is I that I see,
For you also reflect that which I love, and that is also within me.

And the Moon regarded the Earth,
and said,
You who keep blocking my view of the Great Father Sun,
I forgive that I cannot see all of your beauty,
for His light is often upon your back
And I only get to see a hint of all that you are.

And the Moon said,
Oh, time, you who I both demarcate and am bludgeoned by,
It is you who has left so many marks upon my skin,
Not the stones thrown at me and upon me.
I forgive the pain of all of the years,
for it is you who has given me my character.

And the Moon said,
I forgive that I change every day,
for in this I am always the same.
It is this rhythm that the drums of the people sing back to me.
It is this motion that gives them the gift of dance
and it is this that is Love.

Modern Man

The wretched, cursed man,

bent and weeping,

Walking as if a monument

to sold out souls,

Turning, turning,

face side to side,

but no one sees him.

Still, he saunters,

freely meandering

through streets of

golden auras,

all the promises

well packaged lies.

Smelling flowers

as he travels,

for they told him

if he did so,

stopped,

and smelled them,

life would mean,

something,

anything at all.

Sleepless Nights

It soothes me,

music of the dead night sky,

it is silent,

punctuated by the soft, silver

wailing,

so soft as to mimic the silence

that it ripples,

No one noticed when the

lights went out.

No one noticed when the

lights went out.

But you,

and me.

We stood staring,

eyes begging for

forgiveness,

but nothing came,

just a strain

for the moon

that failed,

burned out and broken,

like the promises.

We whispered,

wondered where the stars had gone,

Where did they go,

when they died?

you’d said.

Is there a heaven for stars?

you’d said.

But all I could do was

shake my head,

and my tears fell

into darkness,

like little stars

themselves.

I remember how

my eyes could see,

colors bolder then

we could ever be,

I think there is vision,

if only there is light.

But no one noticed when the

lights went out.

No one noticed when the

lights went out.

But you,

and me.

Kin

It is impossible to know

anything about you.

So I make it up

in my head.

So many things

you’ve said,

in my imaginings,

undaunted by your silence,

you speak volumes

to me.

Endlessly parading,

dream-like,

I know you better,

then you know yourself,

you told me once.

I laughed,

embarrassed.

I study you,

holding you in my hands,

your black and white image,

forever young,

Forever bold,

forever mine.

Winter Night

The white sands,

frozen,

yielding to my footsteps,

a crisp crunch,

water sand,

it wraps wispy hands

around my feet,

as I scatter across it,

hurrying away from

its grasp.

To falter is to

become locked

in time,

a stiff momento.

And as I pass through,

the winds,

my sisters,

sweep away my footprints,

as if I was never there,

I pass, unseen,

unremembered,

or so the winds

imagine,

as they clean

my memory from

the frigid moon shine,

built from tiny stars.

Confessions of a Super-Hero

I am a super-hero,

fighting off the monsters

that plague you,

knee-deep, as you are,

in the rhetoric spewed forth

by their silken, greasy lips.

I tear at their market-shares

and patented product placement

with my blood-spattered pen,

so quickly they fall

when denied the attention

they scream for.

I duck and weave, avoiding the

terrific armaments of their

merchandising squadrons,

immune, I am, being super, and all,

to their mesmerizing, syncopated

droning.

Monster bees, asleep at the wheel,

careening ever downward

to the swamp of their own filth,

a filth fed by the swooning of the undying

masses.

Oh, how I long for the planet I was born to,

cast away to this place,

long ago dismissed as an ever-present failure

by my long-dead peers.

Never in a million years did I see that coming,

that I would out live the immortal.

So super, I am,

That I can cause a near-hit in my sleep,

missing it, as I do,

the onslaught of seeping fortitude,

delivered endlessly by mindless, mechanical

marauders,

created by those who never knew you,

and will never care to,

still.