Last Night

Last night I dreamt a howling windy painful poem
And when I awoke I could not remember it
Except to say it had
Carl Solomon and Jacob Oliviera and Nelson Algrien
And was about
Painful screaming poets burning up with life
Lions in a cage of passion
And talent
And lovelorn love
Love
Love
And now I'm writing it's shadow
Here
Here
Three cheers for a morose ghost
Of a Poem
I'm writing it here
Without benefit of format or
Formal formations of
Words
No format
Reformat
Reformat my mind so I can start anew
Brand New mind
Brand New
Brand New
Brand Nubians and Public Enemies
And yes I remember the music of the city
The streets
The crowded bustling urbanities
Just as I remember the soul of the mountains
Folk music, flutes, guitars, warmth of life
Not electricty
I remember loud rebellious screaming fire punks
And soft autumn warmths of singer-songwriters
And I remember that music is a kind of poetry, too

So I guess even if I don't remember
The Dream
The Poem
Of passion and fire burning us up
A lesson
A lesson
A lesson
Thrice learned is that
Music is a kind of poetry, too

Dirge

Teardrop rain
Flood the basement of my heart like an
Abstract hurricane
Empty days empty nights and an
Empty pain
Heres a dirge for the fallen and a dance for the
Loveless Slain

Three poems at Davol Square

This is what it
is to be
alive

To wonder if gnarled, twisted
trees far below are as well
alive

Or Byzantian things, men acting
as gods and falsifying green
while gods walk as men
red bricks
glass
red pipes
glass

Sunlight, all above
Is this what it is
to be
Alive?

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What are you, or who,
or once 'gain what
That dances, ephemeral,
Just out of my sight?

Who are you, so haunting
to dance in my dreams, and dare
me to speak
of ineffable things?

As I called you to answer
unformable things, unspeakable things, unkowable
things -
Your feelings now flying
or dancing
Like birds without
Wings

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Old Water Tower
Or something like it
Rusted Monolith, surely
out of use and
patio chairs on
a first story
roof

and glass and brick
and plant and life
and people
walk and talk
and
hustle and bustle

Signs of new life
haunting the slumbering bones
of a dying age.

Three short poems for three troubled loves

J

When Wind, as Wind is wont to do,
Picks up his icy and knife and cuts you through,
Stand fast, my friend, stand fast and true.

E

Blood cries to blood and wine tastes of wine;
Dance into the garden and drink of the vine;
And in the summer heat would you ever be mine?

A

I feel in words most honest longing,
Happiness, content, forgiveness of wronging,
As you walk in the glow of mockingbird's songing.

We were set apart

"And when we were made we were set apart, and life is a test and I get bad marks." - Brand New

Ours is the exile.
Ours is passion, madness, beauty, sorrow.
Ours is to be unusual, outside, strange, different.
Ours is to be so uniquely amazing and terribly alive that the world shies away from us - we, in turn, feel the world's pain.

We are actors, artists, lovers, writers, poets.
We are, almost entirely, alone.
I hope we can be unalone, together.

They've taken love from me. They've taken happiness and safety and peace, too.

They took it all so I might suffer as they did, as they do.

Now, they've taken even sorrow, and that pain.

When I think of you, wonderful and beautiful and potentialful and lifeful, I think I can find that again.

Will you remind me what it is to dream?

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Dedicated to EEM. Quack.