Sonnettics

Portrayed as light the story of the soul
Illuminates the reader of his own
He holds the glowing words without control
As every page conforms to what he’s known
Portrayed as dark the corners of the mind
Are like the rows of dusty dirty stacks
Where everything’s impossible to find
And shadows line the shelves and fill the cracks
Then who would write what no one else will read
Who demarcates the day, the night, the dawn
Who lingers in the twilight of the deed
Where action pulls him back or spurs him on
It’s everyone or anyone you choose
Who mingles with the gods or with his muse

The bees are tied up in a bag out back
The feeder they enswarmed is now entomed
Tied tightly in a pure white plastic sack
One moment they were free, the next were doomed
There’s still a chance perhaps they might escape
Although I can’t imagine how they would
The bag they’re tied up in is like a drape
Of death, a shroud, a white and airless hood
Their stings will die, a muted frantic buzz
Their unborn larvae dried within their nest
Their twitching legs will quiver thus because–
Because I thought to smother them was best
Like Caliban to crabs, I am to bees
Deride me and despise me as you please

So small to walk where giants make their way
Between the shadows laced with potent mirth
So small to shout them every other day
In hopes the sound will be of some small worth
Invite the world and just a handful come
And half of them are ignorant at best
Invite the gods but know they’re deaf and dumb
And blind, but most of all they’re unimpressed
You find a shiny pebble on the beach
Amidst a trillion grains of wondrous sand
Don’t think it’s out of fate’s persistent reach
Because it’s resting gently in your hand
Just throw it back into the pounding sea
And let it turn to sand, its destiny

The dust lays thick upon this sterile moon
A million miles away from life and more
Debris of rocks meticulously strewn
Like flotsam on a long-forgotten shore
It’s lonely here, as if that need be said
And cold, although my flesh is burned away
There is no pain, of course there’s none, I’m dead
And now that’s said there’s little else to say
Except to leave one proverb for the wise
Or fools like me who speak devoid of thought
Or gods ambivalent to my demise
Or to the one I love, with whom I fought
A seed, a tear, a bit of fertile ground
There’s nothing more worthwhile, more profound

This one is like a pile of orange cloud
Obscured by dull apartments on the hill
It’s like the bluest sky that god allowed
Constrained within the confines of his will
It drags its feet across the perfect grass
Where just before the summer children played
It comes to stay but never comes to pass
This is the one of which I am afraid
I only want to hold my wife and son
Who seem too far away from me tonight
It isn’t done, my god! It isn’t done
It isn’t fair, my god! It isn’t right
This one consumes my solitary rage
And makes me feel a thousand times my age

The shades are turned so shadows dust their back
They drift and sway like dancers on a rail
One lamp is on; it’s trimmed in gold and black
It’s dim, as if its just about to fail
The room is cold; the night is hot outside
The air is drawn so tight it starts to hum
The pitch is higher than I can abide
My ears adjust by slowly going numb
I close my eyes and draw a deep breath in
And doing so I pull the air too tight
It tears within my chest as it grows thin
And dissipates the way a vision might
As I exhale I don’t repair the void
But nobody will know what I’ve destroyed

I have no hope in life; I am complete
The last thing I remember was the climb
The fall has been a twenty-year defeat
As slow as twenty years of marking time
I’m still intact, and isn’t that complete?
At rest if not at peace (aren’t they the same?)
Each night I stare profoundly at my feet
And try to give myself another name
The god of useless power hears my prayer
And turns my words into a heap of shit
Then turns complacency into despair
Completely for the joy of doing it
And all I want to do is go to sleep
To search my dreams for something real to keep

It’s not a crime to hold a gun and squeeze
The trigger with one finger of your hand
To put your flesh to metal as you please
The levers and the springs at your command
It’s not a crime to feel a wave of peace
Because you’re in control of this machine
To take a breath then slowly to release
To feel the hammer dropping smooth and clean
There is no way to stop the causal chain
The strike breeds an explosion–sound and heat
The bullet’s path determined will remain
As fixed and true as love, if not as sweet
And if the gun was pointed at a heart
The crime was done before the bullet’s part

My life will not be meaningful unless
I bite my tongue and taste the words I bleed
Then hold behind my lips the clotted mess
Until the urge to spit becomes a need
Until I gag upon poetic gore
As life begins to trickle down my throat
Until my straining lips will hold no more
My eyes begin to bulge, my face to bloat
Then opening some book that mocks my pain
Upon some hallowed page expectorate
Obscure the words revered I feel are vain
For all the souls they don’t illuminate
And even if by chance I bleed to death
I will have spat some meaning with one breath

The lights are calm, diffused through ancient glass
The field they mark complains beneath the din
The roaring rush of those who only pass
Without the belly of the beast within
The surge, the bounce, the rattle and the lift
And spread below the world of sorrow lies
A prayer to thank the gods who gave this gift
To tear like thunder through the tranquil skies
What comes to mind is neither trust nor hope
But only destination and reprieve
There is no way for casual minds to grope
With laws they only think they might believe
Then for a time reality is gone
And only leaves the air to ride upon