Your ever-long absence
leaving the ghostly imprint
upon my hands,
As I wager to divine
under a full moon,
oh I would, to know,
To know what you see in me.
My thoughts find me in a midnight café,
of how every track in the playlist
seems to be reminding me,
of the things that no distance can sever.
Your ever-long absence
Rooms full of attachments
the dead have long forgotten,
and left to the living,
Mementos and trash piling up,
behind closed doors
Whose energy lingers on,
frozen in potential and longing,
to draw its psychic touch.
The inevitable moment
that floods the heart with memories
too powerful for vessels to contain.
As fingertips slowly trace the contours,
that will be discarded in time.
Dark city streets
and neon lights,
in these dreams of mine.
I paint imagery out of the shells
still jacked into the system.
the weaver of worlds,
merging the living and the dead,
to create something not altogether new,
but to revive the memories
that lay dormant,
in every pair of eyes,
The flicker of fire-light
whose possessors question,
if only briefly,
What lies beyond the apex
of absolute potentiality.
as the ghosts of the city cry out
in broken desolation.
Highways that scream,
with the poltergeists of the past.
Graves ripped from the earth,
to lay pavement for progress,
and ignore the sentimental moralities,
of our ancestors,
who linger down lonely streets
Wondering who will be left,
to hear their cries, or care,
for the memories they leave behind.
Slowly and serene he approached the stage,
a traditionalist, silent and austere,
where the fools and jesters also stood,
to steal from their patrons
the amusements accrued from their buffoonery,
setting themselves so very base and low.
Every part of themselves on display,
and sold to the highest bidder.
Under the spotlight, Michel did burn.
He burst into flames beneath the scrutiny
of the looking glass from on high,
and the sea of eyes from below.
He burst into incantation,
and robbed them of their security.
He bound them with the whirlwinds,
of his lashing tongue,
and sold not one ounce of his pride,
for the ripe gathering of their souls,
but left them savagely staring into the abyss,
Where his lyric and meter burst forth;
The imagery of such wonderous beauty
as it lept from the safety
of a circle of power.
Bound they remained,
transfixed and agape,
as they beheld fire raining from the heavens,
and an unfaltering sea of the dead.
Spread out before all,
imagery crystal clear and begging to be deciphered,
from the auspices of astral philosophies,
and the ghosts of angels,
still lingering in the aftermath,
of nightmares that lie faint,
across the twinkling glow,
at the apex of the midnight candlelight.
I don’t know why I wrote this tribute to the lives lost at the Newtown Massacre, but here it is.
Who are you that I should care,
when I’ve always looked past,
never batting an eye.
All my pasts cold and unequivocal,
that now I should scratch,
and tear my hair in anguish.
That I should bare my soul,
and show the world an empathy so deep,
that I can feel something crossing the electrical newswires,
and mourn your passing,
as if you were my children,
and I’ve lost my children so many times;
Their ways are myriad, legion.
The span of minds who mourn you, today
cross the world.
Their hearts pouring into the same
vast pool of interconnection;
and its psychospheric micro-chasm.
We wrap our hearts and minds around
the incomprehensible context,
of how something so tiny,
could touch so many lives.
Lost souls when we touch,
Reaching through the astral mirror,
I gaze back into my reflection
There, where I know your eyes,
Though I’ve never seen them.
Our hearts shiver to feel
The percussion of spectral fingers enfolding,
Your hand clasped in mine.
And I know
Whoever you are,
Somewhere at 9pm in the world,
Where the night is fresh,
And rain reduces reflections of streetlights
To the flowing and watery streams
Of bold vibrant pigment,
Somewhere stands a man
Feeling the same ghostly touch,
Who clasps his fingers tight.