Sonnettics

I’ll bring you to the place we disappeared
again before the dawn begins to bleed
the memories of memories we feared
would take us to a time where we concede
concessions like the streaks of heated clouds
at twilight in the early summer’s heat
which over-shadows rushing cars and crowds
and underlies the grass beneath our feet.
The world is solid, built with concrete lies
between the roads that lead to other roads.
Suburbia contains the stifled cries
of dawn as morning silently explodes.
And this is where our memories are kept
within the walls where silently we’ve wept.

“This is the last sonnet I composed before my accident on 4/29/2010. You may notice a difference in my poetry after this date, due to the Traumatic Brain Injury I suffered.”

It hurts to bear the comfort of the fade
of memories invoked across the night,
against the warmth of summer, coolness played,
the pain of passion, burning fast and bright,
the hands upon the sweat upon the skin,
surrounding life and pulsing like a beam
of morning’s promise, lingering within
the comfort as it faded like a dream.
My voice is distant, further than the moon
which rises just as brightly, so I’ve heard,
on nothing; I misspoke my heart too soon
and faded in the comfort of a word,
while every fading night becomes a day
when you arise too many miles away.

She stands, stretched out in graceful strength before
reflections of her youth, her beauty, gold
becomes a dull comparison, no more
than something bought and something cheaply sold.
But this, extruded beauty, more than form
of youthful goddess dancing in her sky,
like gentle lightning, heralding a storm
of passion, like the thundering reply
of some obscure, humiliated man
who knows no better worship than his shout
which signifies his lack of any plan
but opens up his heart and lets it out
in freedom’s best impression of intent,
his passion is immediately spent.

There’s blood beneath my skin which gives me life
as close to death as strips of sharpened steel–
a razor’s edge, the blade of Abram’s knife.
My faith coagulates; I cease to feel
the cuts of barbed-wire fence, the jagged tear
of rusted metal scraping through my flesh,
the nails of Romans forcing me to bear
the intersecting cross of life and death.
It’s warm for just a moment as it seeps
into the world of degradation; shame
enlightens every second as it creeps
toward some inconsequential, holy blame.
There is no cup, no chalice you can drink
to pull you back from life’s eternal brink.

I take my wine to swallow my regrets–
prescribed too late for pain, but not for sleep;
affliction sharpens memory and lets
my mind reject what soul decides to keep.
I share my wine with everyone I meet
within the consultations of my dreams
of soft inebriations which compete
for my affection even though it seems
that all my perfect flesh is still alone
in desperation’s comfortable embrace.
And though I should have kissed you, had I known
that this would be regret, I would replace
my wine with all my memories of you
and trade your kiss for all I ever knew.

If I’m to be ignored, I’ll do it well
I’ll wear the clothes you bought me when you cared
And as you fail to notice me in hell
My comfort will be cold, but well prepared

If I’m to be ignored by whom I love
I’ll sing a song of love, more lovely yet
Than all the songs you sang to me, my dove
If I’m to be ignored without regret

I’ll polish brightly, all my hoops of steel
They never break; they never even bend
I’ll wear my lover’s chain to show I feel
And hold my head up high for you, my friend

If I’m to be ignored, I’ll do it well
With hoops of steel and pretty clothes, in hell.

I hear your absence, silent as the trail
between the sticks of barren winter trees.
They long to be remembered, to avail
themselves of verdant, peaceful reveries
when I can hear you running by my side,
across the bridge of demarcated space
which spans a summer’s brooklet, stride for stride
we run together.  Nothing will replace
the metaphor of you when I can feel
the failure of my strength; you are my heart.
It’s difficult to run, almost surreal
to move at all when we are miles apart.
I feel your presence, softly as a dream
each time I cross some difficulty’s stream.

for Mari

Esse est percipi

Soft silk between the warmth of dew is laid
like grass which floats beneath the breeze of time
which slows the breath of lovers. Serenade
surrounds the flowing waters in sublime
intoxicating visions, touched with dreams
where legs of silken stones immerse desire,
where drowning brings to life, where motion streams
its actions by emotions which require
the pain of blood and birth, of blood and death
to feed the rapid rise of love’s embrace.
Where aspiration breathes its final breath,
becomes the dissipation of the grace
of flesh.  Divine in nature, we believe
that that which is is that which we perceive.

That form which forms her flesh and fills her skin
with heat like passion flowing from its source
subsumes convictions deeper than within
her heart, through which her passions run their course.
That form is strength which beauty overlays,
which forms her beauty, strengthening the ties
of trust in solid motions, in the ways
her form responds to that which underlies
her strength.  Her form is beauty: soft and strong,
like reaching for a star beyond her sight;
she trusts her will to move her strength along
that higher path where beauty can unite
dichotomies of contradicting strengths
and love endures beyond eternal lengths.

There is no karma, only moving on
to love and beauty, strength and gift.  The day
before today is yesterday and gone,
and yesterday is more than miles away
from how I train; this road will tell you more
than words.  I train this body, bold and bright
while other mediocrities implore
communities of losers to unite
in vanities of words.  My legs do not
hear anything but rhythms of the road
which pound a syncopation you forgot
could make your inner victories explode.
Like whispered gossip words, the distant din
I leave behind; my purpose is to win.