Sweet, smoky ambrosia from the heavens,
curl, rise and loop in golden-laced mist.

Thy perfume so otherworldly, carrying my soul
to lofty and crystalline abodes, nestled.

Like a queen with silken train and pearled array
calling with joy “look here!”

Rise, loop and curl in dewy webs
aloft back unto thy heaven.

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Thinking…

December 15, 2011

You try to think, “what will I do…where will I go” and then you realize that even if you do decide what to do and where to go, there’s no way possible to do it or go there!
…..Ugh the story of my life

Friday Morning

December 7, 2011

 

On a hazy, Friday morning, I entered the cathedral,

the one with  soaring spires,

large, brass doors,

the dark, vaulted aisle that smells like wax and ancient, incense smoke.

 

I saw the Archbishop there and asked him about life.

Brows wrinkled,

grey eyes bright,

he turned as if no one had ever asked and gave me the answer:

 

“I am a man, who fears God.

People think I am holy.

 

Behind my lips I hide a frown,

Beneath fine robes hides my sorrow.

 

Some honor me for who I am not.

Others hate me for who I am.

 

I am on trial because my brother sins,

They took me to court for bearing a cross.”

 

Profound words,

short, poignant,

so shameful and truly-spoken,

they stayed with me for a very, very long time.

Junker

December 5, 2011

I’m like a car with

a broken wheel that needs to be steered onto the road.

 

 

You are an SUV,

too fancy to use your turn-signal.

 

 

As for me,

I don’t even know if I have one.

 

 

It was plucked out

and thrown onto the street somewhere.

 

 

Right next to my heart.

 

 

If you find it, get

my license plate number and contact me.

Ode to Latin

December 3, 2011

What is a tongue deceased?

like voice on angels’ wings,

carrying a trumpet,

lost in the background of modern noise.

 

Requiring excavation;

scholars mutter,

holy men repeat.

Why should a dead thing be so beautiful?

Lying there like road-kill on paper.

Graffiti atop ruins.

Born from ancient Rome

By sad pointed U’s, rolled R’s.

 

Sleep with those men, sibyls, centurion.

Dance with that literate dust.

Echo signifers, senators and founding fathers.

 

Shall I see those minted letters?

Shall I cry out the elegant vowels

of scientists:

Esto perpetua!