JUST ANOTHER LENGTHY EPIC ON THE FORTUNES OF LOVE WRITTEN BY A REFUGEE FROM SOME KIND OF URBAN REALITY
OR
I'M JUST AN OLD DOG HOWLING AT THE MOON WITHOUT YOU BABY.
Love, you either have it, want it, or still haven't
figured out just what it means to you.
Not lust,
not that "I've got to get laid or surely I'll die"
feeling that we all get,
but love.
Yeah, that word that destroys empires, sends you
screaming for the nearest saloon,
that stuff that makes you go just a little
more crazy in the head.
If you can't define it, you don't have it,
if you figure that you can understand it,
then you're neck deep in bullshit.
Every time that you think that you've found it,
it just sort of slides away,
you find that grabbing smoke is easier.
You can't eat, you can't sleep, or remember just
what you're doing or supposed to be doing,
and yeah, if you're saying
"I've been there a few times myself",
the answer is no,
you don't get any smarter after the third or
the fourth or even the tenth time,
and being a horses ass just comes more naturally
to some people, and by the way,
this applies to both males and females,
there is no discrimination when it comes to
being a world class jerk in love.
Love,
the question mark, the riddle,
the Unholy Grail, or the Ultimate Quest,
it is everything, and it is also nothing,
without it we despair, with it we soar,
then all too often
crash back to earth in a fall unequaled.
It is underrated, it is overrated,
and on a good day, a really special day,
for one illusionary moment, one instant of insight,
you almost get the message,
then, faster than a bolt of lightning
eclipsing the summers day,
it's gone,
but that's love too.
A wind most capricious, staggering, bedeviling,
a roller coaster ride through the amusement park of life.
Love,
so much written, sung, praised, cursed,
yet we know it less and less,
so what to just go with it, wherever it goes,
at best, you'll be totally confused, do,
at worst,
well,
it just might kill you,
but without its passion coursing through you,
without it singing in your blood,
without its evasive breath of hope,
you can never be,
never be really alive.
UPON WAKING FROM NIGHTMARE.....
Face of night caresses dreams
with mute lips of sable,
turned back, revealing
sharp gleam of bone,
a single drop of falling
light.
Bed clothes tumbled back,
outline of weary flesh
in a signature of sweat,
clock ticks in somber eulogy
as a match is struck, touched
to cigarette.
Alone in the darkness of a room
sculpted in unknown
pain, vanquished love, the
City teeming in emptiness,
below the waters of hungry
sleep.
What has sounded the tolling bell,
shaken my naked shoulder
with chilled skeletal fingers,
disturbing a fitful hour of
rest taken in grudging need,
what indeed has sounded,
what indeed.....
ZEN MORNING ON THE SHORE WITH WAVES.....
Water breaks, grey as the day with a force
of a salty fist on the capstan wheel,
body chills, sudden shock on pallid flesh,
first surf of April, six a.m.,
the hour rolls empty on this shore,
breathing the cool tendrils of the dark.
Long hours of work now behind, tired routine
now tossed off like shoes, like shirt,
as foam cleanses sweat,
infuses a whisper of calm
from within the coiled maelstrom.
Morning passes, the students, the tourists, have
come, though the grey still hangs on.
Departing the shore in search of coffee,
a drink devoid of salt,
and some time now to quietly reflect,
to pass the afternoon,
await the coming of night,
as sleeps hushed death does then approach.
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