Ghosts of words and men on Bourbon St.

Image credit to Destination America

Older man now still chasing the speed of youth,

that magic release it felt like when finally

words would reel off the end of mental tongue

hang lovingly over the thought of pausing

crash headily into a flock of fuck-its

on a once clean and crisp page.

Chase that dragon and his friend,

slavishly bursting with a desire to create

fabricate, detail out something grand.

Have people questioning their perceptions

wondering where time has slid off too

drop by drop, carpe diem, another glass fragment

shifted out the bottom of the hourglass.

There are no epiphanies though,

no monumental Staffordshire bulldogs of arousal

that fucking bark and yap to be released in a crescendo of brilliance.

Just a desire for words it seems.

Something to quell the silence, push it away

give the erratic husks some movement back inside

where all those fiend spun neurons lie gasping.

Deeply depleted, running on random jolts

and chemical cocktails of enthusiasm,

diving for the closest rush of emotional splendor

so that I can etch away its finery

longing and pisspants whining for the chance at joy

but always refusing to bask in happiness.

Because all the words at my beck and call,

And it turns out….

….no, no, no, NO, not another one of these baleful fucking tunes.

Let them slip slumberous and scantily clad,

banshees at a jazz show on Bourbon St.

wailing in satisfaction that they are free and alive

settle down to some post-mortem beignets

a fresh cup of chicory blasted caffeine sludge

one last “hand grenade” to balance the boat

skin those yapping pups into submission

waiting for the dark to creep back in.

Blessings past death and the holocaustic ruin

peppered across an ignoble pursuit of the end of everything

weak-kneed, monochromatic, repetitious cycle rinsed and repeated,

a prayer to consistency and predictability

stability held dear during the wildest storms

even if just to dig one more shovelful.

You carousing, pithy skin sacks of arrogance and shame,

I see you there, you aren’t forgotten.

Clockwork paved roads that seem to spill wheels and gears,

springs and mechanisms all across my feet as I unwind another,

stumbling, less regularly, less urgent the staggering,

less is there that violet hue of madness thickening the air

glossing out the glow that once we all embraced in ourselves,

saw in everyone, sought to share with each stranger.

words and a face shattering grin,

perfect tone, chuckle, and off-kilter phrase

each syllable an expression of fireworks

ruptured too early and spraying fearfully shiny things

spontaneous wonderment at existence.

The belief that if I just keep writing,

The words will lead me inward and home—

—and I’ll finally have something special to share again.

Bones and Flowers

All credit due to MacSeam for the artwork.

Spacious and widely set are these woven walls
stinging nettles wrapped firmly around whipcord center
a promise of pliable willow branches,
carefully soaked switches
cut green, bound in beautifully colored leaves thick with thorns.
Laced with the fabric of breath, desire, mystique,
keeping the luminescent beyond–
–beyond.

However, in those laced moments that the air stirs first languorously,
then rising to delight in how it can twist and whirl
a joyful movement of shifting scents
breeze spraying aside the curtains
they, no heavier than dreams.
Rolling across the stones laid intricate with care
drifting to cross the lone pond.
Glassine and undisturbed as puddled silver
thickly magick and deeper than deep can be known–
–as the air quenches and remakes.

Where tendrilled branches cast ripples,
serpentine gashes play at being rivulets of liquid
cutting once pristine layers
on which reflections lay.
Alive and shedding mirrored skin,
sloshing possibility and promise
as ancient hearts cast aromas in the air,
only as decayed wood left to rot can.
Dust and brittle powdering husks
broken down from their heights to furnish food and fuel
that the next generation might cast ramparts of growth
riding high on the bones of the Old.

Silently they sit.
Gazing down at the scarred and skittering pool,
beaming hope in darkly radiant intensity
from behind eyes set deep with focus.
Reflecting, and wishing fitfully,
that as it calms,
they will find relief from their personal tempests
peace through the restoration of waters
returning to their unblemished state.

A cauldron of insight,
slickly metallic and alluring
where they might at last catch sight of their foes,
drag them into the shaded glen,
bleed them onto the stones,
leave their corpses ragged and torn,
that they can be reborn with the changing days.

Blissfully drift into their thoughts unfettered by care,
smile indulgently at the colorful cacophony
as it unfolds behind their drooping lids,
Oh!–what flowers Spring would surely bring.