more poems!

--

noontime sun

the angel of recovery,
she succors me, she succors me
when peals of laughter twinge my glee
she succors me, she comforts me
when smiles rustle the memories
she weeps and hugs and counsels me.

--

echoes
they found it searching through his pockets,
just a dead kid, he was then,

a passport and this passing notebook,
words like heiroglyphics scattered
'cross the pages water-matted.

and a smile curved on blue lips,
because it was fine,
it was all okay as the sun
was rising.

--

her majesty

she sits, at peace with square wood table,
haphazard accouterments,
wine glass catching winking candle light,
wallet near the table's edge,
cell phone dormant on its perch.
strands of hair that
hug her face that
angles downward,
to knee-balanced magazine.

coax back the hair from
your tired face, oh sovereign.
this place has laid its soul before you,
and you, ever wise,
body lounging, tense with sleep and primed to spring,
you, in deference, do not care,
thou dame of New York City,
thou maid of Sunday evening.

--

untitled:

Traipsing down the boulevard the avenue when times is hard I'll think of you when times is hard I'll think of you when times is hard
Days have past old house is strange so big warm cold with useless things I eat a meal so healthy bright I used to lead a simple life I used to lead a simple life
The noise outdoors it pours it pours out reasoning through concrete pores a city rages at the gates of sanity and mind berates, tramples over stages and states, stages and states it masticates
Backlogged and clogged, intentions bogged, the clear city is man-made fog the bodies of trees smashed to logs the milk of oil in plastic jugs the lullabys are croaked by thugs the druglords fight against the drugs.
Redoubtable and beatable this second slowly wanes, did panic of the overload give way to mindless gains? Imbalance, hungry, powerful is this big man-made world machine. Some things receive their belly full some things are smashed up in between.

--

final
there are books hanging from walls,
there are not plates floating all around the room,
dribbled with crumbs, splotched with salt lakes of melted ice cream.
there is success in this humid exhaustion,
there is nothing in these vapors of satisfaction
that surround her memory, that waver like a talisman of wisping white gauze
around her face
her lips
as she smiles
and her eyes burn through what is and isn't,
though they can't
for she is leaving,
and this room is spent.

--

Pastoralated

Carried onward in a van,
Family and dog in tow,
What we pass is not "countryside";
It is the thinly concealed
Digested landscape
Of the industrial beast.

Grasses waver in the breezes,
Sand-crabs shuffle in the sand,
White and black and green for sunlight,
Every curve its own purpose,
Every motion tilts another.
Fluttering cycle, mindless submission
to wind, to, "whoooooosh,"
to "changes in pressure:"

Too many words transformed this land,
A kingdom that we understand,
I command and comprehend,
I Descend as I ascend.