Secret ~ Monday, 30 September 2019

Some people ask me, "What is your secret?" 

on that note, I tell them dark, sinister 

mischievous dealings with our lord, Satan, 

even as their eyes pop out, mouths agape, 

people hear what I have to say, then watch 

ever curious to see, if in truth, 

on this earth walks a man who knows Satan, 

people are naive, gullible creatures, 

logic evades their attempts to see past 

everyday banter into stone cold lies, 

arguments beyond imagination, 

seeking a refutation of my words, 

killing themselves to see a good man wrong, 

maybe I should infer they mean the beard, 

ever so long after three years of growth. 

Portugal ~ Monday, 30 September 2019

When you see my name, 

how much do you know... 

ever imagine 

night enter a ship, 

yes, deep in the hold, 

only as cargo, 

understand the cost, 

sleeping in the dark, 

ever-present death, 

everyday, I cry, 

maybe you don't know, 

yes, the slave traders, 

no one imagines 

about my dark past, 

my dead ancestors, 

even I must weep. 

Banished ~ Sunday, 29 September 2019

Nine years old and my older brother tests 

insanity by using batteries, 

nine volt batteries on his brother's tongue, 

enter my cousin and they were a team, 

victims of childhood abuse and trauma 

only know how to lash out on others, 

left on my own, I found my own victims, 

the women who wanted to be my friends, 

trust, love, acceptance, all became suspect, 

on my tongue, I tested each battery, 

nothing more shocking than betrayal, neglect, 

given this was the seventies, no one 

understood the loneliness of exile, 

exiled in a foreign country called home. 

Ominous ~ Sunday, 29 September 2019

Maybe if I had punched them in the face, 

as a consequence for picking on me, 

yes, bullies were everywhere, in the home, 

bullies at school, as teachers, as students, 

engaged in everyday activities, 

if my mother, father, and brother cared, 

for instance, maybe I wouldn't have to... 

I wouldn't have to kill them all, murder, 

has a sound like thunder in pouring rain, 

after the lightning strikes, flashes brightly, 

diminishes behind ominous clouds, 

perhaps if my brother didn't hate me, 

unable to take care of me, he taught 

neighborhood kids what a freak he thought I was, 

cared only to throw me under the bus, 

how I wish I had killed him as a child, 

except then I would be scarred far, far worse, 

despite being raised by sadistic wolves, 

today it is better never to speak, 

however much they think they are family, 

even in their delusion, they presume, 

yes, they imagine I grew up happy, 

isolated from family, my friends knew 

nothing, how sad I was deep in my heart, 

that childhood in paradise could be worse, 

however likely, became apparent, 

even as my faith in religion failed, 

faith in the family, for me, was a lie, 

as they saw me as a sociopath, 

correction, I am an articulate, 

enduring human being, a poet. 

Hiding in Plain Sight ~ Sunday, 29 September 2019

Where did I go wrong, 

hindsight makes me think 

everyone picks on 

really small children, 

even mom and dad, 

drunk uncle, cousins, 

indeed everyone, 

did you pick on me?

Imagine you did, 

guess I should have been 

overtly direct, 

would that I could change, 

remember the past 

on my own terms, tears 

no one sees blind me, 

grief at the movies. 

Quicksand ~ Saturday, 28 September 2019

Poor Bill Brillo lost his mind on acid, 

on the inside, inside the asylum, 

ontology took a back seat to drugs, 

respectfully, these drugs aren't for you, kid, 

Bill threw himself out from a speeding car, 

inside the asylum, his voice grew numb, 

left to his own devices, he lacked hugs, 

left alone on the inside, he lacked friends, 

Brillo was brilliant, a real superstar, 

remember Mirror Theory, his old band, 

influenced by post-punk, he played guitar, 

little did we know how deep in quicksand, 

little could we imagine just how far, 

only a rope could save him, no one sends. 

Genuflect ~ Friday, 27 September 2019

"Hands up who wants to die," 

and so we came inside, 

naked down to the waist, 

dripping in sweat, how great 

sons of war heroes burn, 

urns full of ashes, learn 

proper etiquette, kill 

who in affirmative 

holds hands high, regardless 

of our deceitful web, 

who imagines our game 

as thoughtlessly inane, 

no donkey dung beside 

the road, we walk the line, 

senseless, this ring of fire, 

to walk slow down the aisle, 

our intentions, certain, 

damned were we to care if, 

in all likelihood, they 

ended up kneeling, prey. 

---

Quote: "Hands up who wants to die." ~ Nick Cave, from "Sonny's Burning" ~ The Birthday Party 

Opportunity ~ Thursday, 26 September 2019

I knocked on her front door, 

kissed my good friend goodbye, 

never saw her again, 

on parting, did I cry, 

crying was for softies, 

kill yourself, quelle surprise, 

even if I could stop 

death, she found suicide, 

obviously, her death, 

no one could imagine, 

how many got a chance, 

everyone asked me why, 

really, I hurt inside, 

from the moment we met, 

remaining friends for life, 

on her front porch, I knocked, 

no one answered the door, 

the fact was, she was dead, 

dead or alive, hanging 

on the end of a rope, 

on the wrong end, a noose, 

really, I want to cry. 

Deliverance ~ Thursday, 26 September 2019

To the devil with you my son, 

on this day, you are no longer 

to enter our home, off-limits, 

however you get by, this day 

ends our relationship, my boy, 

devil take you in his embrace, 

evil resides within your heart, 

vengeance like no other, angels 

in heaven fallen down to earth 

live as you do, lost, wayward souls, 

winds blow, and you tumble, a weed 

in trouble with the law, in truth, 

trampled by your older brother, 

how you chose to kill him, kills me, 

you, my son, my only son left, 

on this day, I have no more sons, 

understand my sorrow, my guilt, 

my shame, knowing I must send you, 

yes you, my boy, to the devil, 

something in me fights against this, 

on this day, my conscience cries out, 

no more misery, no more death. 

Keeshond ~ Sunday, 22 September 2019

On the way to school, we 

never spoke about it, 

the way he died, brothers 

have to know the difference, 

explicit or tacit, 

with only two of us 

and a runaway dog, 

yes, the dog ran away 

twice, then after a year, 

one night, he came back home, 

still, dad took down the fence 

covering at the top, 

he said to put Cody, 

our dog, on the long chain, 

over the fence he jumped, 

lynched by his need to run. 

Humanity ~ Friday, 20 September 2019

Dear Mom, 

Even though we argue, 

always will I love you, 

remember that during 

   the next pogrom. 

Mother Russia, you left 

others to kill your chosen few, 

maybe you had your excuses, 

      like 

            Jesus wept. 

Chalk ~ Friday, 20 September 2019

Secret childhood pleasures 

everyone knows about 

'cause you don't give a fuck 

really about secrets, 

everyone knows your game, 

the fact you like to eat 

chalk as a grown woman, 

however strange that sounds, 

in fact, you just don't care, 

left alone to your own 

devices, chalk brings you 

home to that place you lost 

once your family moved out, 

out into the country, 

don't no one care out there, 

pick out your favorite dress, 

left alone, you eat chalk, 

even teachers wondered 

about where all their chalk 

simply disappeared to, 

under your dress you keep 

ready supplies of chalk, 

eat it on the sly, like 

salt licks for lonesome cows. 

Allitération ~ mercredi, 18 septembre 2019

Sans cent seize chansons de Saint-Saëns, 

arriverons-nous à la même 

notion d'une rivière vide 

sans rame dans une chaloupe ivre? 

Cette question sans vraie réponse 

écoute sans entendre un mot, 

ne pensez-vous pas un instant 

telles questions ont le dessus? 

Cannibal ~ Saturday, 14 September 2019

Alone, so horribly alone, 

left on my own for so long now, 

only God knows for sure how long, 

no one to speak a single word, 

endless days and nights on my own, 

surrounded by silent mountains, 

on the footpath to the valley, 

human remains litter the trail, 

oh, how I wish they were looking, 

really searching for me, but no, 

regional mountain climbers die 

in the frost as they try to climb 

blindly through snowdrifts, mountain fog, 

lightning storms and avalanches, 

yet, somehow, I arrived up here, 

ask me if I remember how, 

little snippets persist in mind, 

only I can no longer speak, 

no images, just a felt sense, 

everyone died, or I ate them. 

Incest ~ Wednesday, 11 September 2019

Pretty little maidens 

      give their hearts to Satan, 

   riddled, right from the start, 

         with curiosity, 

      enter the serpent-king, 

            with a fondness for girls, 

   threats to their livelihood, 

         to their families, to God, 

      tragically mean nothing, 

            having nothing to lose, 

yet, their virgin cotton 

      sheets lack a drop of blood. 

Linger on my finger 

      to point the way below, 

   intrigued by his power, 

         his stately appearance, 

      tranquil butterflies float 

            with sorcery above 

   the eternal daemon, 

         the spirit of magic, 

      little do they attempt 

            to resist the devil, 

even though they know him, 

      they know no one greater. 

Maidens in the garden 

      dance with the butterflies, 

   ask nothing but to love, 

         support and understand, 

      if he be the devil, 

            no man could be the worse, 

   despite hands of marriage, 

         vows of eternal love, 

      even little women 

            know to question such words, 

no vow of commitment 

      lasts compared to Satan, 

   simply put, men are dust 

         to his eternal flame. 

Give me the strength to beat 

      a man into despair, 

   in his hope to offer 

         lifelong security, 

      villains in sheep's clothing, 

            when Satan tells a lie, 

   even he turns crimson, 

         in silent contrition. 

Their hearts may boil in pitch, 

      in brimstone, in cinders, 

   heavy bearing the weight 

         of tormented children, 

      even they know Satan 

            offers his protection, 

   in lands destroyed by war, 

         where ordinary men 

      rape women as trophies, 

            as victims of conquest. 

Hearts bound to Heaven find 

      no safety on this earth, 

   everywhere they may go, 

         their prayers go unanswered, 

      ask them what is the point 

            in believing in God, 

   remembering their youth 

         on swings with their mothers, 

      tell them how their feet point 

            to Heaven and blue skies, 

singed to the bone, marrow 

      exposed, they only laugh. 

To say that they suspect 

      you offer only lies, 

   only tall tales, legends, 

      myths and outright fictions... 

Satan offers them peace, 

      the one thing maidens lack, 

   an awareness to tell 

         the difference between truth, 

      terrible and brutal 

            in its beauty and strength, 

   and the lies that men tell 

         to persuade girls to bed, 

      not even their fathers, 

            uncles, brothers spare them. 

Ataraxia ~ Wednesday, 4 September 2019

The world is a puzzle, 

   however large or small, 

      eventually we find 

what we missed the first time, 

   only to discover, 

      resting still, in plain sight, 

         little pieces right there, 

            deliberately waiting 

indefinitely, say, 

   so we see the picture  

as it wants to be seen, 

perhaps, with mature eyes, 

   understanding the role 

      zazen plays in our lives, 

         zen meditation works 

            little hidden wonders 

               everytime we sit down. 

Listen ~ Monday, 2 September 2019

Again and again, I watch as you shift 

gears, your hand on top of mine on the stick, 

answering the motor, I learn the art,  

in the language of sound, as I listen,  

nothing is more beautiful than driving, 

as a child, a manual transmission 

noticeably appears more difficult, 

driving an automatic is a bore, 

answering the engine is a lost art, 

gaining knowledge takes time, appreciate 

an instrument in all its usefulness, 

in turn, the world shifts gears, and I listen, 

nothing sounds better, smoothly shifting gear, 

I remember Papa, teaching me art.