Solitude Cowboy Blues Walk, 2013

The muse was absolutely naked

the orchestra began

a forest idyll mocking

the morning dance

of the nymphs.

 

The darkness of the auditorium

misplaced the meaning

of the aria,

a courteous capital no

has been the tides mantra

gifting junk by junk

an incremental tenant

at some point

the pressure of the universe

splits an atom and an isotope reveals

that mercy is no riddle

to the faint hearted

 - that cradle

has an allowance for variance

tonight I had the oft moment

to look into who I used to be

I declined, not for the pain, yet,

the child has grown

and I finally have become

that which I think I’ll be,

youth gets lost, too lost to be found.

the bludgeoning of motor-skills

becomes the ultimate enemy

what is lost is gone, what is gone

never wished to stay,

it is okay now to remain who I am

at some point, it has made no difference,

adolescence is grim,

I meant for it to be – better than it was;

which seems to be my excuse for

everyday that has passed since.

I’ve fought so hard to gain control

that ultimately that which I wished for

fleetingly abandoned me

and even for a time, I  didn’t believe

I’d ever get this far

G-d has done me some favors

and now I ask, what do I do

in return?

I await an answer,

all I ask is will you wait for me

to finally get it right?

will you forgive me if I do?

its been 28 years since the bomb

went off, 28 years of grieving and searching

the missing pieces to just say

 - ‘tis done!  The myth has settled

a man learned, a father wise,

a husband realized.

I’m sorry for my failures that is

no doubt, I’m sorry for the pain

I had. I wish I could have

given it to the ghost sooner.

Dying and living is a subtle charm

and you do it all alone

I’ll miss you – great pain

and lonesome muse

but do you need me anyway?

if you do, then stick around

I’ll surely be your friend.

 

a memory a last: when I listen to

Girl From the North Country – I remember a

sweet dream, walking the winter streets

of Princeton – friendless – but exhilarated

by the opportunity that

was in front of me

I had the tape in my car and I’d

go to this bookstore to browse

and wouldn’t buy a thing – too poor –

and later be drunk walking Nassau

and staring into the window

and singing the song to the reflection

in the window & the girls walking by

to chuckle – that – that is the you I

miss now –  not the dying desperate

lovelorn fool of unrequited faith –

the boy I mentioned was damaged

but good and would have done

anything for you – he was the poet – 19!

he was the man I’ve become!

somewhere slowly

somewhere holy

somewhere waiting

-          just missing.

 

Oct 17, 2013

© 2013 woundedlordliterature

 

ШАМРО

revel at midmorning autumn

I’d rather I wish
About the exquisite edge
Then ponder now if I
Have a place there
Perhaps the time for destiny
And harrow have passed
Beneath the tresses
And canopy
I am a servant to the people
And my shoulders are now weak
But I do not ask to be carried
My sin will always be pride
And the place of a fool
If my voice is to be heard
You will have to find me
Separated out in the legume
Being moved by those mighty winds
This is my revel at midmorning autumn
The frost is lifted, the crows calling,
The mason chipping & the housewives toking,
And the students praying, the toddlers partying,
So many distant worlds
Repeating mantras to the deaf, dumb and blind
We tolerate so much hate
It is much easier to listen
To the dew drop on the cherry leaves
And wait for the next day to come
Malaise will occupy our epitaphs
Since guidance is a vacuum
Screaming into infinity
Is all that you and I can do
We will not be bless’d
We will not be damned
Nor wrecked, nor saved
Landlocked we are bound
To live & die w/apathy
Is to live & die w/sword
We cannot be all & nothing
& nothing can be all
We can only trade one
Fallacy for another
Wont to want, not want to wont
Until our bellies are starving
Will we see we need fed
And if we are eternally empty
Nor understand what empty is
We shall consume the rat & the wheel
And then turn to our will.

© 2011 woundedlordliterature

Private Stock Poetry
From reveling in the aftermath

ШАМРО

THE SCARLET WOMAN

ONCE I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife.My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two days after his insurance expired.I had nothing, so I had to go to work.All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted the men of both races.Starvation danced with me.So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to Vice.Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around.Gin is better than all the water in Lethe.

Fenton Johnson (1888-1958)

The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple bough wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Walt Whitman – Song of Myself

The Seven Lost Secret Fascinations and Abilities

There are seven lost secret fascinations and abilities...

They are that:

1. animals can talk

2. your favorite blanket is woven from a fabric so mighty, that once pulled over your head, it becomes an impenetrable force field

3. nothing is too heavy to lift with the aid of a cape

4. your hand, held forefinger out and thumb up, actually fires bullets

5. jumping from any height with an umbrella is completely safe

6. monsters exist and can be both seen and done battle with

7. and the greatest, most special and regrettable loss of all: the ability to fly.

from the movie Radio Flyer

A Farewell to My Youth

O happier half of days decreed to me,
My early years, so soon you passed away:
Few were the flowers that blossomed on that tree,
And they, scarce budded, fell into decay.
Few were the rays of hope that I could see,
And storms would often rage in wild array;
Still, for my youth, dark though thy dawn may be,
My heart will ever cry, God be with thee!

Too soon the fruits of knowledge did I eat!
Where dripped their poison, faded all delight:
I saw how honesty and truth could meet
Among the human kind with scorn and spite.
I sought true love - an empty dream and fleet,
Which disappeared as dawn broke into light!
And wisdom, justice and the learned mind
Were dowerless maids - no suitors could they find.

I saw how those who are not loved by fate
Their ship in vain against the wind may steer;
The one who is not born to high estate
Shall see no Fortune at his cradle appear;
I saw how fame is purchased at the rate
Of current cash - no price too high, too dear;
I saw in glory's and in honour's seat
All that beguiles men's minds with lies, deceit.

These sights and others uglier by far
Burned in my heart till cruelly it bled;
Yet thoughts like these the joys of youth will bar
And quickly drive them out of heart and head;
Fair cloud-born castles glimmer from afar,
Green lawns arise where desert places spread,
Hope kindles many a wanton, beckoning light,
To lure the young and tempt them in the night.

They know not of the sudden storm that blows,
Dispelling phantom shapes that cannot last,
And all too soon forget misfortune's woes,
Forget the wounds once they are healed and past -
Until the changing years show how life flows
Into a vessel that is leaking fast.
Still, O my youth, dark though thy dawn may be,
My heart will ever cry, God be with thee!

France Prešeren

SCBW 09 – a farewell of sorts

there is something timid in my approach tonight;
the moon is in the last quarter and not within my sight,
I begin my solitude cowboy’s blues walk

if I wake up in the eastern sky before dawn
I can see Gemini the Twin, Castor, Pollux and Mars
with the moon being a tea cup

when I search the sky; there is no suffering. I am not cast away
or shrunk from fate, moored by the bow or unrequited
simply wishing

not a parable but a triangle of velocity, a straight line, a side or a vector
sometimes depending on the weather, slow to accelerate
I don’t tend to follow natural position lines for the journey.

I relied on an anger that spent my youth like a turn by the vaulter;
directional by physical force, moving, having moved enough
to avoid the bar

although; I was quiet. a burglar in a sleeping home. I could walk right into a bedroom and steal jewels before the dawn. I was empty of the possession
of a being

not soulless or undivine; for I could be enigmatic when I needed shelter
the method of physical action, a revealed exegesis,
never leaving a trace of my existence

and it seems for forty years I have walked alone, turning stones and making beds
that my benign neglect and aspect certainty was less the mark of Cain
but as perfection comes, the imperfect disappear or never the two shall meet

there was never any intention to write the conscious book of evil ab initio, Astarte & Variance take their turns in solitude when driving the bay shores
I kept my faith as long as any man should have

so for years I have kept this shame inside, stormed my fate like a man sentenced to hanging. took my rest in the wilds and the wastelands and took my comfort
among the sinners refusing to love or be loved

some sort of low parallel, sunken to the bottom of the sea, ashes strewn, a fallen cup,
a bag of seed torn, languished and refused this temper flared until if failed
to burn longer than the summer daylight

it is not coupled to surrender but awakened to the tome found in the bedrock
liminality courses it structure to bevel this homecoming
clinging to the kelp and seaweed dredged up from the sea

shall I fully know now? as the dimming of this penance fades? is my walk ending or just beginning since now I feel the calling of my greatest deeds, no longer affected by the childhood punishment, no longer held back by the chains of hesitation

I will only know now by the steps I take, I will only know now by the steps I take,
if I have been forgiven and if I can let it all go, once and for all
if I can give my heart and soul, to the life I have now.

October 10, 2009

© 2009 woundedlordliterature
from of old men and of the sea

ШАМРО

the Moon is Sliding

the moon is sliding down the street
and I sit quiet, mostly feeling absurd

I’m learning how to live my life again
I’m sad in a pleasant sort of way

I was driving home the other night
and under the overpass I saw the desolation
in this ragged land
I drove passed the smoked mullet shops
and the sea merchants union hall
I see the pretty girls with dirty faces
the tired old railcars, the graveyard of
military ships
the poor lonely homes with the melting souls
of the blue collar families
the crippled corners of those roads near the port
each morning a more magnificent vessel is parked next to me
it reaches to tell me, to show me
where I have landed
I see the shadows of smoke stacks
an industrial paradise in the corners of my eyes
squad cars regularly cruise by
each night I look into the Daddy Wabuxx bar
to see if it would be safe to venture in
I look down 7th Ave one night; I may just get lucky down there…
I watch the skyline everyday notice a new building…
I see that seedy laundry mat on 22nd and sit and silence working the radio
smoking cigarettes with hungry belly
the desolation is sweet
and during evenings agony whether it be drinking beer,
talking to some girl
or watching the low volume television
I look deep down into myself
to whisper: what are you doing now?
I see the wealth of life and all their believers
and ask myself: what do you believe in?
the façade is no longer that…
I can only speak honestly while I am silent
my whole mind is in a total cloud
a frozen painting of vision
alone in a fierce tunnel and oxygen is scarce

before I have complained of personal tension
before I have felt unlove & left behind
I have many times lived my dreams through others
I have before demanded compensation from my mind
by what my body disallows
once more, like leaving the back gate of my life…

I have searched the country roads, I have whispered my dreams
I have driven slowly everywhere
and have captured significant glory and said
Nothing of what changes it did not bring
and I think too; how many times I should have said
something or done something to keep love alive
I know I am the creator and the healer of many successes and failures
yet I want someone to come and save me
I want a complete and total love on my level of consistency
I want someone to come in and never leave
and be only for me
I’m sitting sober, sitting silent
no longer a surreal existentialist
no longer the noble romantic
no longer a restless heart of truth
no more sentimental about what left too soon
I may close off and sit in silence forever
I may just close them doors that seem open for other people’s selfish gains
I may quench what crimped desires still linger
and sit a shadow of the sun
in the corrupt gully of personal certitude
the motif meditation double parked abandon
the one lip above the glass of bourbon
the numb and the stern

sooner or later; it will be too late to turn it around
sooner or later; everything will be gone
and then I will be my own trap of my own game
the one and only battle given victory by forfeit

there are roads that no one can share
there are scenes and feelings unrelatable
and in them drunken fits; when I am ignored
it is the great weight of solitude meeting its fierce competitor:
the constant state of passing thru…

some pavilion in some cheek bruised stare
as tho’ hated by the masses’ thoughts
poking the ashes in somber sigh
the quiet starting thoughts peering out the window
and that thing in the chest & throat
when one asks, is this the beginning of the end?
I can walk no more to think about all of this
I can sit no more to think about all of this
it needs to swell up out of the ocean
it needs to fall from the sky
it must burst as a caress of tears
it must take away the shadow of the sun
and finally prove that there is nothing on the other side
that the finalization of the mystery is in the actual state

so if this is a significant time
let it choose an ending of peace.


December 2, 1992

from Shadows of the Sun or Young Man's Dreams © 1993 Private Stock Poetry
from of old men and of the sea © woundedlordliterature 2009

ШАМРО

Pilgrim Heights

Something, something, the heart here
Misses, something it knows it needs
Unable to bless—the wind passes;
A swifter shadow sweeps the reeds,
The heart a colder contrast brushes.

So this fool, face-forward, belly
Pressed among the rushes, plays out
His pulse to the dune’s long slant
Down from blue to bluer element,
The bold encompassing drink of air

And namelessness, a length compound
Of want and oneness the shore’s mumbling
Distantly tells—something a wing’s
Dry pivot stresses, carved
Through barrens of stillness and glare:

The naked close of light in light,
Light’s spare embrace of blade and tremor
Stealing the generous eye’s plunder
Like a breathing banished from the lung’s
Fever, lost in parenthetic air.

Raiding these nude recesses, the hawk
Resumes his yielding balance, his shadow
Swims the field, the sands beyond,
The narrow edges fed out to light,
To the sea’s eternal licking monochrome.

The foolish hip, the elbow bruise
Upright from the dampening mat,
The twisted grasses turn, unthatch,
Light-headed blood renews its stammer—
Apart, below, the dazed eye catches

A darkened figure abruptly measured
Where folding breakers lay their whites;
The heart from its height starts downward,
Swum in that perfect pleasure
It knows it needs, unable to bless.


Alvin Feinman

horses

when I was a young man I had horses
once was a blind appaloosa
twice was his pony
each was a token of my forgiveness
of a life spent in disregard

I read them Old Angel Midnight
and of the trifecta’s in the south
and they spoke of the hunger of the north
we laid our heads down upon the stones
and kept each other warm

now my life has turned; not graver nor grayer
but the youth, that was of my thirties
has cast its eyes to other pastures
studies that were written down
are not written in vain


4/19/2009

from of old men and of the sea
© 2009 woundedlordliterature

ШАМРО

Marina

I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September

- Marina T.S. Eliot


old poems old songs old seams
that button, fray and feed the laced
something sublime comes my way
tobacco stained shirt collars and forced
under star light; taken for photographs
in the state of transcendence
the moon is a sister
and the earth some mother
I wait for the thunder

I found me a quote; that I wrote down
almost 22 years to date; unconditional
full of sincerity, walking the sidewalk
for the full reposit and sensation of things
and I remember the night; it was the café days,
you said it as a matter of fact,
and we walked to the park and set in motion
the creed that we were to live by
restlessness and truth; the stories of our lives
were to be filled in this idealism

tonight I have read so many poems, Scott, Parker,
Eliot, Robinson and me
but in that book of old romantics I stopped
dead in my tracts not only because but because
it is one forty five in the morning; it is muggy,
it just feels like the old days I haven’t stayed up late to
write me a poem in years

it said, ‘here take this; but remember I never gave you anything’

what would we say not to that but in our stalemates our check mates
our careers that resemble the Book of Job or even Enoch
all I ever wanted then is neatly stacked and hidden away
as childhood mementos frozen misspelled hastily composed
under coffee dimmed lighting
its worth in remembering is the deed unto itself
this world vs that world; youth and enthusiasm and old age
and treachery what wisdom have we forsaken, taken
and refused, refuted or relinquished since the dawn
of those days curled instead of elongated continuum

it all seems so different and it still feels the same
yet tonight I wish; I could breathe deeper and
stay up longer reach further and dream higher
put this into words more perfectly


April 26, 2009

from of old men and of the sea
© 2009 woundedlordliterature

ШАМРО

little use

what if she did
it is of little use now
it is unfair for failure
to be kept accurate
what if I did
it is no avail now
I thought I was lonely
and she was no
friend then
I didn’t want to
feel it anymore
albatrosses, crucifixes
destiny; it is a
funny thing
looking back
to seminal
trajectory and
neglect is a tiny
phrase that lawyers
use to rest their case
there were no sunsets
or romance of bitter allusions
that ate up the silence
she was a cracked mask
from a carnival
rapture befallen a
grifter's silver tongue
a slippery reverie
that salutations
like dear sir
and for whom
this may concern
resolve conflicts
connected to
obscure sufferings
unknown to me now


July 8, 2009

ШАМРО

© 2009 woundedlordliterature

Pome in B minor

I’ve been looking for a pome for you
but I can’t find the right one
I think to myself of
‘Faces Seen Once…’
to recall all those at epochs gone

this morning it was raining
and I thought how much
I used to love to smoke a cigarette
on those in-between rainy days
bereft of expectations
contrite as Camus’ processes
or as the-younger; take the afternoon off
and seep into a book of philosophy
in dingy barroom; or solitude walks
in DC wandering or Princeton art exhibits;
the beaches Atlantic or Gulf all
‘Lines Written In Dejection’

soft in refrain from the mosaic of the trapeze
and just the wording reminds me of a night
I was in a carnival tent; with the wire and the net
It was me and a stranger that I had just met
and we dared each other to take some steps for the wire
I made three steps then fell the ten or fifteen feet
and we laughed: This daring I could take

but youth kept me free from love
and in a coldness that was possessed
in enchantments: foggy mornings in cemeteries
and all night coffee jam sessions or on the bayou where
Greek youth celebrates the Epiphany
and also listening this morning to a piano player talk
about Schumann’s ‘Carnaval’ how it spoke
from with-in her heart or Byron’s hack of Pope in ‘Sonnet on Chillon’
to what ends do we dare ourselves to flail in our failures
what is success without its father experience?
and yet ~ what of the wines of the monks of Chillon
O ~ of what use is it to outlive all of them if we cannot
find the suitable goal of understanding; the purpose
of a life worth living or the sublet of circumstantial choices

in ten years will it be a burnt candle sitting on a bookshelf
and the truth; will it be a demarcation? Tales of perspective-
it is an exempt stage onto the players; a angle
of repose where the lofty make there toasts and speak
to the valor of living inside-out of fears then ~
one day to be standing in Normal Mailer’s living room
or decades earlier listening to poetry
sitting next to Allen Ginsberg
what is sadness but the heart of dreaming?

life is divorce and dead friends; regrets
and sublime victories; cold solitude mornings
or Easter’s buried in sweat on the brink of sanity
or Halloween in Ensenada drinking margaritas
these manifests are a boatswain’s keep
everyday has its chance to be 'Suddenly Last Summer’

and yet, miracles persist
by our unintended consequences of a chance night
visiting a friend who won’t let you stay home
and instead of outside the maddening crowd
one of those truths relit; a prayer,
snow covered daffodils in April
or ‘Hours of Idleness’
for the sake of distractions-I-not-why;

but this is what I wanted to say to you
meaning unexamined, version unedited
life breaking forceful under the tides
new moon Ash Wednesday’s all across America
God resting comfortable in soft morning, joke-book
sitting on his belly…the world asleep at its feet.



Feb2009
© 2009 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО

Roosting

dawn blue morning light
after thanksgiving frost
solitude & ghosts
playfully toy with my ritual
a sparrow jumps from pussy-willow
to barbed wire
then off again
the cats are in the house
it is just me and the eerie past
that the thanksgiving mornings after remind me
of late night rendezvous
when friends as lovers mixed
in mornings such as these
as guilt freed sleep recalls
those impetus desires
or the fruits they may have bore

these are memories that are
playfully youthful
opaque & damaging as the ill maintenanced
mechanics diving into space
a mathematical oopsee-daisy
filled with unintended consequence
that sophomore instincts
overlooked in oversight
on that banner what should be scrolled
when love is not mischief nor is it demanding
but a yawp
I would justify it in this way
that sometimes
people misjudge me
as some-one-else
as I did too those mornings?

I know, for my part that is untrue
for I bargained for what I knew to be veracity
secrets rest as charnel
they are the tiny plants of romance
that filter idle reverie
those lovers may regret me in their tales
to their sisters and mothers or daughters
they would return to their crime in
automobiles and call of
unrequited love lost
if I were to apologize for being insincere
I would be a liar
for sometimes love can be a time & a place
an hour or weeks; we search only
for forever and in an honest pairing
I know love to be forever

I am testimony to that hallmark prayer
I have written and rewritten those sonnets
in joy & dismay too; and replaced folly
with reality while suffering my sins
where illumination bended my psyche
we dance with semblance to lesson
our matrixes & legacies
in these wee hours we remain as we once were
like lightning in a bottle or oily rags behind
a barn door
I am reminded of nature – now – as I write
a hawk flew low through the corridor to sweep
up some game as all the sparrows scattered
the hawk flew back empty talons to recalculate
as I recall years ago I buried a hawk that I found
had broken its neck

life as a predator has seminal rewards
lonely, starving in the cold November morning
it is all as simple as that
for I watch that hawk now leave the hemlock
to search the plowed soybean field
our traceable steps vanish
our temporary disguise reaches out
to another garnish
what is sought becomes a reflection
with or without our talisman we
reach empty or retrieve our goals
where in the morning to have our meal or wait
so do we rest or journey onwards
march with our instincts & resort
find forgiveness for ourselves
or banish into the countryside to mend our wounded-ness

I am much too sure of my desires for recrimination
and have been too hunted for redesign
the elements never change
only the availability of choices
mark each epoch as a line in the sand
and wait for the next wave
spirit is a manifest
an issuing bond of creation and void
as we return again & again
with soliloquy and cherished guardians
I have long felt my ancestors in my bones
in my presence, in my autonomy,
my pleasure & in my pain
as the ingénues and the whores
recoil and requite my sardonic
hegemony in topography & gravity

it is not all passive gesture as we
conclude our expressions; is it
even scorn has a reservoir to appeal to
we ride our reigns to full gallop for
one reason or another to achieve destination
as we are want to rest
for always we are mutable
in our minds
and our ingenuity
it is when we are not resourceful that
we become captured by our goals;
to be led & clasped, unlucky & spent
no longer reaching for the sky
and into our covet-ness
flailing about in our culture
incendiary


© 2008 woundedlordliterature
ШАМРО
November 28, 2008



“There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads –“

Hawks Roosting
-Ted Hughes

a farewell to the muse (an epic pome in progress)

"Ecce Dues fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi"

prolegomenon

dreams come to settle and I regret that
after the seasons of the span, a cradle sits
slowly down

having no anthem, nor pride to recollect
it's funny that sorrow even peeks its head
into my thoughts

and yet I can still understand
how one song can influence another
slight hinges of conscience takes a flight
not burdened by its past
the way that I yet, still seem to be

ghosts may be simmering in my sight
a spell may be trying to take hold
I have no fear of the dead, most of everyone
I have loved is there
at the precipice; Beatrice may be waiting for me
with her saber and her scorn
I am skating Peter's Brook, in my winter boots,
teaching myself how to go backwards, as she
glances I am ankle deep in the icy water,
can you laugh about me now Beatrice, now
that summer is here and you have left the pear
trees and the weary stream for me to allow myself
hollow gratification of sisterly smile
when you explain to me love from shoulders
length
it was not that you did not love me, it was simply
that you would not,
telling me to continue upstream to rest
near the deeper waters

one day; that beatific vision would include
even the dull blade that I kept under my pillow
genii moves to trade this dance for the
soft promenade; to lean against the glass
to reach into my side unbreaking the sky

I have drank away my will
colored the suite to find my octave
baleful allegories rest silently sleeping the night
it is no longer a matter of fact or opinion that
muse has retreated, no longer to meet me
with tear stained fingers pressed upon my window
our childish scorn has no manifest for truce
I rest easy yet serenity stands with arms akimbo,
ardent surmise; for this understanding failure

my wounded lord; you were to save with
me, fight with me, against the divisions,
allow me my difference, deference although
as I do not stand defeated; has this cursory
blemish sprouted someone less vain,
more corrupt and picked precisely poison
empty on my palate? I should be absolute
in my condemnations alas a pilgrimage
against my spirit to be siege! Behold;
this only weapon against the open scorn
less the tyrants of naiveté less the warmth
of the broken light. Stand against me, bear
my tolerance show me that once and for all
there is no meaning in this pursuit, that I
am genuine fool, that I am a blind Percival
cracked under the lunar light, then mercifully
scorn me to that decadent solitude pitted
and possessed of vanity; tortured terror sans
the gravel roads, the burnt out furnaces,
the collapsed mines and the fell bridges
leave me in the most human of moments
without the hope of salvation; starvation,
cold… solitude… force upon my spirit that
which I can not stand to bear…or find it to
stand with me undaunted Gran Paradiso,
or Nearer My God to Thee; magnanimous,
paltry, as the day is long…savage and raw!

yet mine is a fare thee well; as Jacob climbs
the gate; hooded and strange, colossal and tame
whisperingly kind, forgiving sermons of
better days gone by, Paris in June and September
in Venice each arc of sympathy a scroll
of Solomon and hint of abstention
I have no never mind in the benediction
that we remain to seek out in each synchronistic
oath that we pick our destiny from the ashes
of that victor voice; this involuntary memory
trades spaces with the guide momentarily
a genuflect, a tight roped table and chair
suspended right before our beating hearts
as simple as the phrase that sticks white knuckled
to vanity’s stroke of genius; its not meant to
be painful my child, it is meant to illuminate
the difference of reckoning; what we leave
behind is only a reference to the depth of
the feelings that remain, the scolding joy
or the terrific trance, we stand together
outside of this gate, a membrane, a symphony
for deed; the voice says I had not left you
while you have slept on the stone and I have
filled your dreams with a gift to return to
man, heal thy heart, hold thy reach against
the gravity, move it to the hesitations coy
tremble… trust… yourself… trust your
desire to become a child again

that reckoning stands waiting at the shore
a justice, blind and forthcoming; something
just beneath the surface
its funny that when one seeks proof, one verily finds it
we seek that which we cannot put our finger on,
it turns out to be all that we feared was worst,
driven to an end by suspicion’s crooked fingers,
dialing a deviant diatribe baseless in its desire for
annihilation, where even the peaceful do not walk
for the dead, nor do they longer await,
sudden, symptomatic and summery, a dissection
of pride and animosity; we do not live for inspiration
not the way God does, nor do we anticipate the fates
the way the Devil does; we, we are the relative calm
finding a way to turn the cure into a revival,
to step into Eden’s forfeited grave, some duty of
long forgotten paradises, only there do we promise
to take our rest, as if we, have been taken upon,
as if we, had been typified in jest, if we had turned
our backs and not the other way around
that sorrow, that bitter sorrow like spoilt milk
baked by the heat, scorn that swallows the sand,
chokes on the last bit of bread, manna, oh manna,
I am nourished not in the bosom, but under the spell,
my awaited destiny is crippled not by the angels envy,
nor the hypocrisy of the institutions, nor of the faltered
ideals of generations history, the millennium criss-crosses
what the saints have denied and where they have failed,
not I, something is driving the spike through my heart,
tonight as I appeal now, as I cry in respite, as I relax
the tempered steel that is my casing, I long to tear
down that wall, to reach into a place I have only seen
in visions, plagued by my youth and my hesitation,
be with me oh Lord, protect me from all of my punishments,
for I have been a sullied man, weak by flesh, ignorant
by birth, soulless by misfortune, stubborn as the day
is long. is there enough love for me to overcome all
that is detestable to sublime, an intrinsic grafting of a
life less dignified than most, I do not know if I am honorable
enough for my task, I do not know if I am courageous
enough to muscle the last credo for an everlasting essence

I simply know that I may not have control over it,
that with or without my will, something is happening
around me that I can not have understanding of,
that my lessons are turning a wheel against a hard river,
and I am only helping to carry from one shore to the next,
the foreboding glances to the journey, and it is difficult if not
impossible to see the other side, too much fog, too much wind,
too much rain, too much darkness.

we will mark this day, to suit as an anniversary to the embellishment
of Constantinople, the trademark of orthodoxy, the gift of
anticipation; schisms tunicate and baselines, this morning
that the muse deigned and danced with a pearl in her belly,
taunting the graceless with a beguile, lavender and licorice,
clarinets and bass drums, a parade of charm and inclinations,
later, when the sun arises and the new moon raises, we will
have exhausted the timid in our memory, and our tempest in
our teapot, will the light hurt my eyes or will my soul be lifted
in flight under the gray sky, damp with spring…

© 2007 woundedlordliterature

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Farewell to the Muse

Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,---alas, never!

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!

Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast---
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet;
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet---
The present---which seals our eternal Adieu.



George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron (22 January 1788 - 19 April 1824)

Next Yr.

Next year; I’m going to decide: How Bad Do I Want It?

Scoff all that you want... but let’s think about it…

How bad do I want the recognition? How strong is the desire? Broken stems and petals that slide up and along the banks of Gave de Pau … what are we left with?

is it political discontent? choreographed lives? the middle of the end…? is there a culpable disease corrupting our brains and our nervous system?

I have yet to put my finger on it; but we are operating in an increasingly violent hysterical deck of tarot cards.

to think about what is outrageous now… as compared to what used to be hysterical?

I hate the cliché but no one sees the signs. and what is my response? to find a Maduro and a nice red … because I don’t think I care either. … perhaps - I am wrong to find possibilities under the rock, weary transistor wave lengths that tell us that hero’s are coming home or simply believing that the gods listen to my art.

I’m angry too. Bitter. Disappointed. In a fever pitched state of feeling… screwed.

America; you are going to find out that it may get terminal. You have to realize that unless you actuate the Leaders; we will die.

And Leaders? Let’s try and pay attention; this is only a one shot audition. Citizenship? We miss ye, we miss ye! Where is my tea party, Dammit!

Next year; will the Mets make the Series? Beat the Yanks in 4 shut out games? It’s extremely naïve of me; but why not?

Next year; start to lose weight… why not?

Next year; participate in a team building experience that actually depicts that we are doing this to receive a participation award…comrade

Next year; what bothers me about this year… I no longer care about. And if in particularly it irked me? I might keep in on the books… just to be honest.

Next year; submit I’m Ronnie Millsap, Bitch!!! to Dave Chappell and we become business partners.

Next year; my Country Ballad #1 becomes top selling country single of all time.

Next year; you know what I mean… make it my year! I’m due… I have that gamblers anticipation tying my stomach in knots… this year… you know what I’m talking about? This year, the way we mean RIGHT NOW, when yelling at the kids, the niece or nephew, the dog or the 911 assistant. I’m j-j-just saying that if it isn’t this year; then I wonder when? Know what I mean? good old buddy old pal Next Year? … a couple of near misses this year… but next year; some of my hopes and dreams… I don’t need to be Max Bruch, a little sunshine on my shoulder… you know, those times when you don’t know that the time is ticking away…as it was when… we… didn’t… know…better.

Next year; more fully learn the line ‘sweet scenes from my youth, seat of comfort and truth’

Next year razz ma tazz - razz ma tazz - razz ma tazz

Next year; drink a beer to Nancy Wilson… when did you leave heaven, angel mine?

Next year; what is old hateful long suffering that I have been unable to find a way to let it go, would you help me?

Hey Next year; and If I didn’t know what I did?? will you forgive me?

Next year; allow for some randomness… and protect everybody.

and if I left anything out… remind me about it next year…



December 31, 2007

© 2007 woundedlordliterature

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when using my cliché

early before dawn, hen’s start peckin
rooster crowin, my blues get goin
my song I’m singin, leads me to the water
under that longing sky, sunrise and sunset
ends where one begins; and for a second
I can see it

and with Kerouac’s godly finger pointed
straight to me and saying…
‘go boy, go! roll your bones!’
all possibility balancing on the end of a baseball bat
saying, take it, try and take it…and I hesitate…

(when you are young, you preach your beliefs
like a loaded canon weighted in proof readers blues
welcoming all to that table, take a slice; how is it?
tastes real; because it is, as real as its ever gets to be
…for that moment… you see it

and once that moment passes late in a staircase not wanting to go home
wrapped in trance that can leave well enough alone
you feel that welcoming again to the table; how is it?
hurts real; because it is, as real as its ever gets to be
…for that moment… you see it

a moments memory is today’s aperitif with leavened bread
the destiny that expectations sweep under the rugs
the mind is willing yet the heart devours insatiable pride
one worth of regret steeped in hardened alibi
that place that lands … character)

I want all my failures back, not to keep but to now show that I could get a passing grade
then apologize for then being in so over my head
I don’t want to blame anyone else for anything anymore
hey, I made choices too… everybody does…
we’ll own up to them together…

when using my cliché I stumbled on my old name and number
so I wondered; how’m I doin? and I go to make a reservation…
welcoming all to the table, take a slice; how is it?
and it tastes real; because it is, as real as its ever gonna be
and it hurts real; because it is; sunrise and sunset
… ends where one begins… for that moment… I see it







December 24, 2007

© woundedlordliterature


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NIGHT

The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying: "Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day.

"And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, washed in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o'er the fold."


William Blake

(November 28, 1757 - August 12, 1827)

Waited for Dawn

its been a long time
and I’ve been on that shoreline
not waiting for a damn thing
other than myself
these thanksgivings
that come and go
what have they done to me
under these folded shoulders
dancing under the swoon
frost this morning
and dreams so vivid
I thought it must be true

the inspired stop to tell me
their feelings of recourse
I can only respond with
my feelings of discourse
had it been all that romantic?
stealing the gifts of others
hadn't I been turned away
hasn’t my heart already been broken
thousands and thousands of times
haven’t they all disappointed me still
and wouldn’t they say; they were fooled
by me

is my cheek so hollowed now to hide
a mansion on the hill
or is my heart so hardened now to hold
all love at bay
what did I gain dreaming at the bayou
or drunken in run down shacks
did single motherhood deter me
or the shame of my desert
I have come to much
in the years since I was young
what do I despair from all that time
the songs I wish I’d sung




November 22, 2007




© 2007 woundedlordliterature


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