Archive for people

Dispatches From the Front

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2017 by beautifulimposter

The traffic signals are glass and plastic jewels
Smeared across the windshield
Cheap and gaudy ornamentation suspended
In pools of bruise purple black nighttime sky
While constellations of headlights form and dissolve
Stars afloat, hovering above the slick pavement.

Constant motion, vibrations, humming
Complicated rhythms of hands on wheel,
Feet on the pedals tapping Morse code gibberish
Underpinning radio hiss crackle
Disembodied voices, music, things forgotten
Things remembered by halves, rising and falling
Beneath oily waters, yet never quite breaching.

Bodies come and go, vague shapes
Defined by rustlings in the black,
Faces floating ghosts, masks smiling, grim, in between
Conversations drifting currents around rocky shores
Incomprehensible yet demanding, insistent
Inviting, but the address is lost, the directions
Seem to be in a foreign language.

He’s not really here or there, out of phase
The dial tuned just out of sync
A whole world of in betweens
Caught in the middle of point A to B
Möbius twisting, the cat forever in that box
Tires spinning out forever, still in motion
As a billion moving pictures flicker past.

The stories gather like storm clouds on a lazy tongue
Thick, pouring out in streamers of blue smoke haze
Littering the floorboards, curling up at the edges
Leaves and old photographs
Pinned wriggling between dime-store paperback
Yellowing pages, leaved through, well thumbed
Favorite passages recited prayer beads.

They aren’t his stories, those dried up long ago
Back when his tongue rusted to the roof of his mouth
He just gathers, stitching them together
Her shy smile to his lonely fumbling
Their boisterous revelry to his towering silence
Fingers calloused from needling onion skins
Piles of manuscript, instruction manuals for disused objects.

No rhyme, no reason, dispatches
For disinterested commanders,
From no mans but his land, a pilgrims travel guide
The points of interest among drifting bodies
Sliding past upon the sidewalk banks
The living, the dead, the dreamers
All with stories waiting to be gathered.


My Birthday Present to Myself

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 5, 2011 by beautifulimposter

I can remember you like it was yesterday

The tilt of your face, your movements, your pauses

The scent of your breath on the cool air

The way your hair caught the sun in its tangles

How you could feel so small in my arms

While at the same time being bigger than whole worlds.


We all ache, find and lose eachother

Time blurs the edges of bodies

Gives a patina to people and places

Every kiss, every touch, every glance or word or silence

Another scar to mark its remembrance on the tapestry of skin and hear and mind,

Textures of joy, loss, regret, left to be fingered.


We are the sum of the parts others leave with us

Scraps and patches of places we once were

Hair and fingertips, laughter, sighs, moans, a lip print

Sidewalks, front doors, night skies

Sewn up in ragged finery, all the small things to make the whole

Defined by that which we left for the other

Friends, lovers, family

All the finger prints of touching or being touched.


I can tell the story of my life

In the feel of skin, the scent of fresh flowers

In echoes and silences between waves and thunders

All of me wrapped up in thousands of little threads

That bind all of me to all of them, of you

Where I exist as only the memory of someone you once knew

Laughed with, cried to, or held up with strength of limb, or heart or quiet solace

This is how I wish to be, all of the pieces of me woven from the pieces of you,

All of you, those who have been and those yet to be.