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?;

luna

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

Here

Alive

Was the slow shake of the head merely the

Conductor’s cue for a dirge?

Psychosis, the paranoia of intense scrutiny

Every man a spy, every place a trap

Adding locks to a door of the mind, only to hear

The knob turning and fear

Flooding forth and bringing with it

Cold sweats and labored breathing once again.

An impregnable maze assembled

Frantically

One night, stretching into timeless void

Great ideas that would stand the test of time

A week later, returned to cryptic signs

Incomprehensible. Was this me?

Conjured as a shade, a joker, a

Mummers farce with bells and painted faces?

The paranoid have enemies, this is true

But do they fade

Dissolve

Turn into a river of sand pouring from

Our clenched fist?

Our existential threats rise and fall

And one day we will confront them

But shadows are not soldiers,

And they leave no mark for others to see

owls among me

In the darkness of the room; I am surrounded by owls

sighing with their blue-white eyes as they sit on tables, shelves, and ceilings

they gaze;

but yet they do not see.

No fault of mine for I know not where

in what factory, in what nation they took their sight; yet

I wonder, in the obsidian winter beyond these walls,

who are you, owl of mine?

Can you think, or are these numbers upon you a tattoo

left by an elder long since past away;

can you smile, or is this happy expression merely a mind contemplating

for a few minutes too long;

And can you feel, or do your memories hold no tulips, no zinnias, no tours around

a field, coyly gazing at an owl sweetly returning your gaze

Bedside owl, I do not know what sorrow you hold, what joy.

But I love you, if it means anything.