Rusted, monuments now;
Stoic reminders of the collapse;
There to see the start;
And end of a dream;
Streetlamps masquerade;
Stand ceremonial guard as darkness forms;
An elegant lattice that traps the;
Citizens within their fire-lit homes;
Not all, though;
Two ford the dark rivers to isles;
Claimed by a benign moon;
And sit upon the grass to reveal;
Inner selves;
That hide under the judging sun;
Luna holds no prejudice;
It gently smiles upon the two;
Whose hands drift towards each other;
All is not well in the world;
Where time and neglect have;
Made dust of triumph;
The dark becomes;
A rigid cage;
But also, for some the key;
The two hands clasp;
Love blossoms;
Love blossoms in the dark;

Its contours ever darkness-scarred

The sun does droop with epic effort;
Land alight for another day;
Slowly sways beyond hills to slumber;
Amidst encroaching gray;

Each shade of the day retires;
First bright citrus fades away;
Then complex tones of earth and blood;
On dancing meadows lay;

The disc, alight, does bid adieu;
Followed by its color guard;
Until the land grows cold and quiet;
Its contours ever darkness-scarred

A night so dark that even flame is frightened;
Into a dull monotone;
Where the Earth exhales, and slowly whispers;
The sacred mantra om;

Here I stand [poem]

Here I stand;
As saplings flap and dance in speckled light;
Then grow coarse and woody;
And become the blue-gray sentinels that watch, silent;

Here I stand;
As the cliffside smarts;
When the salted fists crash against its rocky skin;
And the crags wear smooth;
Reaching old age as but pebbles;

Here I stand;
As the old mill, long closed and shuttered;
Creaks and groans in a crescendo;
Consumed by a creeping rust, until nothing remains;

Here I stand;
As the stars extinguish, one by one;
The sky grows unfamiliar;
All that has is gone and done;
And yet, here I stand;

but artfully assembled stones

time is a human invention;
the chains that held up modern society;
yet it still marches on when;
the watches and clocktowers;
cease to work and become slowly rusting mementos;

the dirge comes to its dissonant climax;
little more than a torrent of emotion;
a crude yet still-sharp blade;
upon those who remember fall upon;

buildings are but artfully assembled stones;
placed with exacting care before an;
indifferent nature rends them into dust;
every grand kingdom is ruled by Ozymandias;
though perhaps with a little less gusto;

perhaps it is best to take a lesson;
and not think that assembled stones are;
a fitting legacy. the greatest work;
grows more beautiful as time greys;

all that is built is but future ruins;
to one day stand alongside Rome and Greece as specimens;
of a vague, encompassing past;
their ideas stay while all else sits stoic;
grand spectacles of bleached-white stone;

sin fronteras

sin fronteras! a rallying cry;
of those draped in black;
and red;
luchamos in an indifferent world;
one that has long forgotten;
the dreams of Catalonia;

they hoist a flag emblazoned;
with that iconic image of Che;
now printed in the thousands to;
adorn the walls of college dorms;
a revolution turned commodity;

the modern world has lost the chains;
but decided to keep the poverty;
and so the few still chant;
perhaps tomorrow yields a better world;

gazing at falsehood

societies have erected temples;
to win wars, to gain peace;
to make fields and girls fertile;
ensure the future and placate the past;
yet the notion to reward falseness;
with coin and rapt attention;
the woman with airbrushed thighs;
coyly glance from glossy magazines;
the comic books of my youth tell;
of super-strength and commanding fire;
awesome, yes, I know that these powers;
are not for the likes of mortal man;
once flipping through Teen People;
I counted fifty-three skinny blondes;
they are as distant as a superhero;
yet all kinds attempt to imitate them;
Adonis imbued in us a desire;
never able to be quenched;
to be someone we are not;
nor ever could possibly be;
gaze into a mirror soon, not now;
for this poem is not quite over and;
its author knows too well of Adonis;
but nothing but reality will meet you;
creeping across every inch of your body;
and deeper to each facet of your character;
the smiling blondes do not live;
they lived until a camera stole their soul;
they became timeless, floating in timeless void;
smoothed into into sculpture;
turned from person to portrait;
the post-industrial world is busy;
full of deeply serious people that work far too hard;
when they return home why escape into;

a reality that hurts the heart?;


the dead planet mocks;
tells lies;
with its luminous purity;
seducing mankind since;
eras in which only whispers remain;
locked eyes in a tango, crescendoing to a;
brilliant climax;
Luna full, naked and unashamed;
grown old yet a child that has;
yet to grasp polite society;
its uniformity, dull features electrified;
only through the fury of Sol, the Father;
to gaze at Luna is to see;
a canvas touched only by the;
brutal march of time;

Industry (part I)

When with one last gasp, feudalism

Died on the steps of a grim factory

Its body was ignored as the clock chimed and

The serfs of old trod upon it

It was a revolution they say, and with it

The walls rose up, bigger, thicker than before

And the pebbled soil beneath

Covered with squares of dull stone

And paced adamantly by grim-faced foremen

At the gate each man was stripped of all

History and talent he had accumulated

All luxuries

For all that was needed was a sixty-degree turn, counterclockwise

Every nine seconds- truly

A revolution of the highest order

The bright eyes dimmed, and the clamor became a

de facto moment of silence that nobody sought to end-

What was there to cry for in jubilation, when

Their peril and suffering was taken from them

And turned in short order into

A tailored suit for the man who watched above

A new era inaugurated, but age old struggles

Would come again, as in all eras that lay

Long forgotten and built over

On the same rotten foundation

On a night long since forgotten

When the shimmering strip of our home galaxy

Illuminated faces of silent wonderment

Our place was settled, and the cosmos reached out

And welcomed us as its children

The cosmos never forgets, to a degree that

An elephant would find excessive-

It sits, Indian-style and whispers amongst itself

As though Earth is a grand theater and

The cosmos has not been shushed by a

Red-clad usher

Do its children remember that night,

Before the calendar informed us that we

Were hurtling forward, when every night was a festival

Of the always-renewed covenant

We, the children borne of stars and time

Gaze up into the mother’s eyes

And see with perfect clarity and see

The unity of the past

Hushed, long silent but now urgent beyond all measure

The past is constructed with large portions excised

A jigsaw puzzle missing the bridge arching over the brook

In the bottom left corner beneath a pale blue sky

The few lines of text give

No meaning within besides that which you feel

Sparkle within your weary heart

She turns to you, and only you

Entering the doorway with her back to a pall

Of a past you did not know

The checkbook slides across the marble table

A pen clicks once,

Twice more, anxiety bubbling

Yes, money

But for what, to whom?

Facing the past, or running away again-

Will this poem describe not one moment but two

Three, more?

Wrinkled brow and a tortured, lingering glance

The pen clicks once more, the checkbook slides away

The sun comes up as a new day dawns

And ushers forth the leaves falling, the nights darkening

A chill that stays long past its welcome

Only tired hope thinks that you’re still



Was the slow shake of the head merely the

Conductor’s cue for a dirge?