Poetry: Random

Untitled

You are my salvation.
The smell of you
on my skin, like cologne;
your cologne- Lynx Africa,
Old Spice- bleeds through
to my senses
like an old caress,
like rough stubble on fingertips,
in the dark,
thinking: that this could last forever--
that it will.


Where We Are Now

This is like a bed of lava frozen
over in the winter. The ice
is foggy white; slate blue
beneath-- and worn.
Worn thin from many days
and daring.

Under which, the heat burbles
up from the source-- a passion.
The passion like a hot shower
of cool steely pins, or like the
Flood. With lava
burbling
up.

Some days we'll skirt the thin ice.
Other days we'll skate it;
listen with tight hearts to each crack and splinter
and wonder what lies beneath.
Not knowing.


Inheritance

God is remiss: His hands are clumsy,
dry, withered like a corpse;
skin pulled tight over bird-thin bones.

God is Rasputin with tired eyes.
He hunches His back and the metal walker
before Him catches on a rock: time stops, tilts, resumes.

Time has weathered His face.
There is history etched into those wrinkles;
weariness ingrained in His gap-toothed smile.

Old Man, go fishing. Your children-
as all children must- will bear the burden.
Let the world pass to the meek.


The Beach at Night

The moon hangs red in the night-
a blood-bloated tick, sucking on darkness.
The grass below cracks like glass.

The boardwalk is gray in the starlight;
long shadows play on splintery, old wood.
The breeze pushes at dunes and sands hiss,
sifting and shifting, restless but inert.

The salt tang carries with it white feathers,
black beak, orange feet- two empty, stupid eyes.
The gull is lonesome in its beat, coasting above the world.
Its call is grackle, and hurts the ears.