[x]

BitterBitter-sharp and angled
The stake through my heart
The brightest sun cannot penetrate
The cold seizures as I die
and die
and die, everyday;
but still somehow remain.

You only had to die once.
I've died a thousand times
since you left.

Dying is no way to live.

Grandmother's HouseThe smell of hot concrete rising from the sidewalk
and the tar on the wooden bridge
The sound of trains coming and going
So close that the small house was rattled

It was always summer, there.

Screen doors and a small rotator fan were enough
to keep out the mild heat of June
The train whistles sang me to sleep at night
With their wistful traveling tune

It was always summer, then.

GnawboneDoors open and bang shut
Long corridors, footsteps echo
Slam, growl, howl
It's only me.

Beer bottles crash against plaster
And bounce off the TV screen
Scream, blabber, whisper
Bare my teeth.

Fists punch, knuckles break
Mirror shatters, pipes leak
Dismantle all that exists
Strip my soul clean.

Less Than NothingI've never had so much nothing
A gnawing Black Hole where you used to be
Not just emptiness, but a void that
sucks in all life from around it
Leaving nothing
No, less than nothing
Nothing would be better than this.

Shot On LocationThe flights were all canceled due to grey jello
The grounded were hounded by small barking dogs
O'Hare billowed skyways and vanished in grey
On the rooftops at Wrigley the saints were all safe

Tinsel, utensils and bright Christmas strands
Grey pudding for all at the end of the stand
The dawn came early with chirping grey birds
But the saints were all drunk, disordered and slurred

On a wooden raft down the Rock River we floated
Caressing their bones and singing their songs
Northwind pushing away from the grey day
And into the comfort of Logli's night deli

HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.

DescantDescant soundwaves bounce off of my forehead
Seeking entrance to my brain they want to
wriggle through like high pitched worms;
Insistent, hungry, throwing themselves forward.
Long after I've retired they still seek entrance
How can I sleep?

Black OnyxThe Tall one and the Dark one are getting married
They'll have rings of silver and black onyx
Kitchen photography and zen at three AM

I love you with my guts hanging out

Inspection tomorrow, did I clean the microwave?
Call your mother, she misses boring you
Naked in front of the flat screen making wishes

Beer and little white pills and ash

Pressed flowers and swatches of cloth to be scanned
And it's only Tuesday where will all the boxes go?
These darkened halls have seen more life than I've ever lived

Won't you come back for the wedding, at least?

edgethrough cloud-spackled skies, lightbeams;
longshadows race across longlawns
twilight's coming, better wrap it up soon
even the longest days aren't forever.

blackbirds fly low, the silver ones high;
treetops move swiftly but gracefully
soon stars will dance with them, winking
at the secret that everyone knows.

we're all sleepers here, this world a dream;
dervishes and banshees in our brains
we reach for the evening star.

a wish for freedom is a wish for death;
does anyone remember?

welcome to bo-bo land.

SymphonyIt's the measured breathing of someone on oxygen, here in the small hours. I don't know where it's coming from. I hear it beneath the white noise of the air conditioner.
It's the faint jumpiness of a phone ringing, a monitor flatlining on a loop in my memory.
It's the droning in my own ears, the hum-buzz of the tinnitus, the electricity and insect sounds.
It's the whistle of a train, much louder than it should be. It soars over the top of it all. There are no trains nearby.
It's four AM again. The silence is not golden.

Four AM Musings .

Four AM, something calls me from my bed
Coffee and cigarettes in the Quiet Time
Before the world awakes and begins its manic noise
Time to think, and feel, and dream
But you, you're always the first thing on my mind.

Scattered dreams still cling like cobwebs
Fading but not yet gone, mingling with the
Lights-on reality of the dark morning and its silence
While you were here I'd have simply thrown
An arm around you, and gone back to sleep.

The world changes, people leave
Never understanding what they

Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

Sunflower Field BurningStalks of sun ablaze turn heads down, shriveling;
Smoke filled sky, blotting out the very thing they would see;
I pound the wall in helpless rage.

GentleIn the deep shadows of a summer's night
Close and muggy blanket spread
Frogs sing hymns to the sky for rain
Fireflies carouse amid tall grass
like fairies;
sparkle
flutter
dance.

Stars poke pinholes into the darkness
Too warm to cuddle, holding hands
The moon's hazy light disappoints the frogs
But shines delicately on her face
like a caress;
whisper
laughter
love.

Soft stirrings begin in the treetops
At last a gentle cooling breeze
Ice cream boardwalk memories of the day
Will burn throughout winter's wrath
like fire;
flicker
crackle
glow.

DrownBlackness at three AM
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown

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Three ShipsWe sailed in three ships, with three crosses, after
the three singers died
The father, the son, and me, the bastard grandson
who kept the count

Black water, ribbons of black clouds, illumined by
the strange moonlight
There were no stars in the sky that night, only
in the ground

Smooth ripples, silent bells, the world holding its breath
Waiting for the docking, and the three fires, and
sparks flying up into the starless sky
to form three new ones

DeformatoryI dreamed that I had wings, but I still couldn't fly.
They were chicken wings.
So I ate them.
Fifty-five years in the deformatory, I hear that
no one ever gets out alive.
I dreamed of a carnival, with big neon signs that read "Hope"
I think Hope was the name of an elephant, though.
They were making a movie.
I asked what the movie was going to be about.
They said Hope, or fifty-five years in the deformatory.
I sang them a song I'd been writing.

"Ninety days in the deformatory
Doorclosed hallways shriekbrained
Out on a Sunday summer night
The bars are all barred from inside

Bring me a volcano I'll drink down the fire
and blow s

WhiteoutSunlight, sight-stealing,
winds crash against waves
of nothingness.
Birds furiously winging,
everything goes away.
Even the boulders of pain,
sorrow, regret
will eventually erode.

Snowman Jack said it would be this way,
may his fat ass rest in peace.

The Wooly Sweater The wooly sweater was made of thin red, brown and gold threads. It was on a mannequin in the attic, with empty birdcages, boxes of shoes and old books and magazines. The mannequin wasn't one of those dress-makers types, but had come from a storefront somewhere. The sweater was all she wore, and it looked a little obscene. I named her Cancer, for her lack of hair. Sometimes she would sing, softly, but loud enough for me to hear from my bedroom. Sometimes I'd go up and sing with her. At some point we began talking, telling each other stories from our respective worlds. She told me of the things she'd seen while standing in the storefront, stra

HeadacheMy problem is a headache
No, not a headache; an explosion inside my brain
A wailing, a crying, a lost soul's screams of despair
A jackhammer serenade, a machine gun sonata
Black canvases painted in a frenzy by a madwoman
Darkness at noon, dreams flying by in fast-forward
Crippled children trying to run from a sharp-toothed monster
Confusion of languages, religions, philosophies, all idiot blather
Chainsaw grinding of bone, packs of mad dogs yowling and howling
You see, don't you?
My problem is a headache

My Old SchoolCrippled by shadows, wait in the dusk for night
Playground ghosts move the swings gently
Trees bow their heads and sigh goodbyes
This is how it is, here, now

Pale moonlight rises to show nothing new
Its been this way for so long, far too long
Pinebranch fingertips drop needles, stars twinkle
The moon turns its attention to the tides

Old bricks, overgrown with weeds, murmur
amongst themselves about children now old
Nightbirds keep reverently quiet and dream
This is how it is, here, now

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River

by =Bark, Apr 3, 2011, 4:06:45 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

Bleeding words from shellshocked brain
A mantra: Clocks, crows, plastic flowers,
Dust, dirt.
Dreams, pale winged,
Flicker like an old-time movie.

Mannequins. Barberpoles. August days.
Running freely down
and through
and again.

A sieve.
A stone.
A bleached bone.
A river.

It always ends in the river.

Riverby =Bark

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

...

~Metatetron Oct 2, 2011

damn Ron, I have to stop here for the moment.

wonderful art my friend.

=Bark Oct 2, 2011 Writer

Thank you very much, John.

*AlisonBlue May 6, 2011 Student Writer

the last five lines would break any heart.

=Bark May 6, 2011 Writer

Thank you very much, and thanks for the fav.

*DasGhul Apr 16, 2011 General Artist

It's the first poem ever reminding me of David Lynch.

=Bark Apr 16, 2011 Writer

What a great compliment, thank you!!

*chryssalis Apr 16, 2011

=Bark Apr 16, 2011 Writer

thanks!

~All-My-Darkness Apr 14, 2011

Into the river
We dive

Without an inch of contrive

The back to future show
The unholy cancer we grow

It seeps in like misty window
Like dusty pillow

We wipe
Then cough

And lie down

Lighting up another one
Who is never the one

=Bark Apr 15, 2011 Writer

"Lighting up another one
Who is never the one"...

exactly.

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