The Burning Poem

I

I wait for Time to walk away. I conjure a gun and rest my fingers upon it. This is how I sleep. This is how I sleep.

II

Rub, rub on my chest the truth that I needed from you. Tonight, any ointment is hope.

III

There's a ceiling fan I've jumped into - a rain of soundlessness. Life, not suicide.

IV

I dream of burnt poems and of running through the thick, black forest of Night.
Will you hold my hand, sweetheart? Will you touch a burning poem?

To the Memories I Could Not Have

To all the memories I could not have -
there's this empty space that my heart
always seems to notice.

When I choke at the sight of this emptiness
I plant upon it songs of woe,
I wet the abandoned bench with tears
and sometimes I get pretty unfortunate:
I imagine, imagine, imagine.

His taste. His touch. His words. His wants.

And all the gifts he could melt me with.

To the nothing that pervades my world:
I know I look a sculpture -
there's just black crows that worship me.
I know I appear frozen;
I know you think I do not hear.

Let me have a memory; let me call it mine -
I'd melt into the night before you catch me dying.

Lightning

Lightning planted
across the skies -
still eyes
and the visible current 
of blood -

truth be told
I don't shake anymore -
my trembling from the thunder
is a frozen feeling -
an ice spear
that shreds my insides.

Sometimes, within me,
a shrub matures -
green and frail yet full, so full -

I present it 
an easy death -

uprooting the wreath
with all my might -

I leave it a shorn stem,
a beckoning stem -
lightning like?

In a Dream We Dwell

In a dream we dwell -
memories swell
up the bubble.

A million shells on the shore -
and night quells
their existence.

The double meanings -
this rubble down the road -
slumber and numbers -

the tolling bell -
the rolling shell -
how night quells,
existence?

Church

The womb,
a sad church -
harmony of darkness
and soundlessness.

Intrusion, worship;
the darkness being
looked at.

Bent knees -
they soar to a cloud of pain.

Asking.
In whispers.

One last look
at the light 
through the stains -

and they're gone.

Not Anymore

There isn't time
corking the bottle anymore -
the soul has fled -
fled away from the fragility
of trances ...
from the deadness, life?

Unforgettably

His voice is the smell
of roses I have
never touched.

Clutching the seconds -
a skiing in snow,
he races across me ...
unforgettably.

I trace these wrinkles
and taste an intimacy
between us.

We are, we are -
in a timeless moment,
the meaning, the meaninglessness;
the mirth of the earth
when upon it a star,
falls.