The Last Syllables

One-two, one-two.
Heartbeat. Don't stop.
You're the last syllable of all this time;
the only friend and only sign
that I'm still alive and beating,
trying to cheat my fate.

One-two, one-two.
Count the number of choices I had.
Count the heart that bled for me
when I had stabb'd it with honesty.
One-one-young-young.

And beat your last, oh bravest heart;
only I will ever know all of what you are.
All of what you are.

Continue on, no death yet,
through crazy deeds and philosophies,
sex and sermons, God and demons.
And every time you see one,
think of me as the only one-two-one.
Think of me (one-two).

And love your last, impassioned heart;
only I will ever feel this bleeding love unmarred.
Because I will be the scar;
I will mar this heart.

One-two, one-two.
Heartbeat. Your chest.
The strength I never felt but always knew
bewitches you and all your futures.
And you will be wild, and I, a child;
you will flow out, come far out,
and I will live in denial.
But through your beats, you'll feel my heart,
and I in yours to dwell in hell:
one-two, one-two, farewell.

So beat once more, oh lovely heart;
only I will ever see all these things you are.
And long your last, o'er distance far;
only I will ever be all of what you are.
And die this time, oh foolish heart;
only I will ever mar
this beauty with a scar.

~05/2004

My Mona Lisa

I don't know why you smile,
my Mona Lisa,
but I am not beyond your mysteries.
"You can't understand a woman."
I've heard that one before.
But your secret is no different
than the secret of time, or space;
or the secret of life,
which you make with me
when we two are one.

Your secret is not in your face;
not from your deep, dark eyes,
as unfathomable as any stretch of ocean;
not from your whisper-filled lips
that may contain many secrets
(all of which I hope to hear);
and, no, not even from your nose,
though how it succeeds in fitting you so perfectly
may mystify me,
from time to time.

Many spy on the horizon,
as they do when looking for other answers:
they find your secret of life;
they find your secret of time
(but not how you make so much time
for one as me);
they find your secret of space
(but not how you make so much space
for love of me).
But to discover why you smile,
I will not search in typically masculine ways,
for then I would fail.

I search your heart, my darling,
and find only that to a gentle touch
and to a warm tear
it is always open.
I search your head, my love,
and find such a puzzle inside
that no secret could be found,
even by you;
and it is obvious by the tilt of your lips
and by the glint of your airbrush eyes
that you know very well why you smile.

And so, finally, I search your soul;
but only my soul can interpret yours,
and they speak in languages
far beyond our comprehension.
So let us set our souls free
to wander, and wind their way,
and intertwine
in the far reaches of the galaxy we share.

And still you smile,
my Mona Lisa,
and still I am mystified.
And so, I paint you.
I draw you out onto paper:
every line, every curve, every shade.
I draw not a photograph,
for photographs have tried to capture
the secret of your smile;
tried, and failed.
No, I draw a portrait of you
that is not perfect and not flawless,
just true.

And so I stare at you
to find your features,
to be the Columbus of this voyage;
the first man to understand the secret
of a woman's smile.
Maybe you smile for me -
or maybe I am vain - you smile not for me,
but for life, or for children,
or to look pretty, or for the poor,
or for money, or for the pink windowshades
in the background of the room.

I am at the point of resigning myself
to be yet another puzzled prince
when I see you,
your lips and your eyes and your nose and all.
Your secret, as grand
yet as simple as the secret of life -

you smile because I wonder why you smile.
Your secret is nothing more
than the secret of knowing
that you do not have a secret.
At least, no more than I do,
and we will find each others' secrets
in time.

My Mona Lisa,
I know why you smile,
and I smile too.

~04/2005

A Poet and a Blind Man

I saw a poet and a blind man
on the corner of a street.
The blind man spoke to me,
and he said, "son, you listen here,
the poet, he can't see."
And the blind man didn't see the irony.

And when I'd passed the blind man
the poet turned to me,
saying, "friend, look at me,
my thoughts are full of philosophy
because of a blind man, and all he can see."
And the poet didn't see the irony.

~05/2005

House of God

I couldn't find you in the house of God;
I wrote your name into a ballad,
but all the knights were dead,
and all the dragons long since fled.

I couldn't see you in the race and games;
for you I lit the Olympic flame,
but the torch was just a candle
for the winners, the losers, the scandals.

Bless me in the house of the Lord.
Bless my guitar
if I ever play you a chord.
Bless my intentions;
destroy my inventions.
Bless my swords and my valiant words.

I couldn't love you in the arms of another,
so I plot the murders of your lovers.
But my plans just go astray,
and my vows just find a way
to get lost in the lines of an elegant cliché.

I couldn't find you in the house of God;
I know your name is just a fraud.

~06/2005

Angels on a Needle

And I saw you
on the carpet,
making angels with your hands.
Such a...delicate sigh
as you glance to where I stand.

And I kissed you
on the forehead;
the angels ran away.
Such a...delicate SCREAM
as the halos began to fade.

Tell me:
on the head of a pin,
would the angels dance
while the devils sin?
Tell me:
on the point of a needle,
would the angels dance
and desert the steeple?

And I saw you
on the carpet,
telling angels your goodbyes.
Such a...delicate smile.
The angels, the angels have died.
The angels, the angels have died.

~10/2005

The Ides of March

If I had to choose a day to kill you,
I think it’d be the Ides of March,
because kings and queens can die that day,
and I believe that’s what we are.

~03/2006

Our Last Summers

They said, "this is your last summer alone;
you'll be swept away in the winds of the cold,
like everyone that's ever cried,
and wrung their hands to help decide."
Where do you go?
when there is no destination.
And for the last time in the history of man
a child grows into his nation.

They said, "this is your last summer alive."
But I won't be so far away as I try.
Each leaf that falls to cover the past
leaves trees empty, burns wicks to wax.
(sigh)...Another candle gone,
and there is no culmination;
just summers away, gone, and dead,
leaving no trace of an explanation.

They said, "ah, but this is life."
They said, "ah, but don't you fight.
With a strong wind your candle's gone."
(out, out!)
Wicks to wax and on and on.
(you brief candle)
We're walking shadows in our last summers.
(out, out, out!)
Count on till you reach a hundred.
(we are heard no more...)

~05/2006

Cruel

Here's where you lay your head on my pillow,
and I told you not to go.
You didn't listen, you never do,
and now I have to hurt you.

Here's where you were swallowed in my arms,
light as a feather, but I'm the tar.
You didn't listen when I said to run;
well, it's too late now to escape, my love.

Your eyes say you would never try to obey,
and I, well...I'm just cruel.
I'll hurt and hurt and hurt you.
So stand stabbed and silent still;
no no no, I won't kill you,
I'll just hurt you a little.

Just a little.

~06/2006

Bittersweet

The bitterness of your distance
fades a little every day;
each airplane that floats by
takes me miles and miles away.
This way, I'd go, I'd run, I'd hide,
but your eyes see past all the pride.
Though I will be invisible to you,
through and through I know I'll wait,
and savor each little taste you give me...
every one is bittersweet.
It's you and me,
but it's bittersweet.

I dreamt I ran a marathon,
but it was all the wrong direction.
I dreamt I won the lottery,
but my wealth crushed the economy.
I woke and walked along the beach,
rainy sand on foreign feet;
looked and saw, to my surprise,
two sets of footprints on the horizon.

The bite and sting of pesky thoughts;
where's the peace of eastern men?
I'm not religious, but if I believed,
the laws of nature would have to bend.
And I drive the same monotonous route
day by day, and lacking you.
Through and through you know I'll take
and savor each little taste you give me...
every one is bittersweet.
It's still you and me,
but it's bittersweet.

I dreamt I climbed the tallest mountain,
but still couldn't reach to touch the sun.
I dreamt I swam across the ocean,
and in the middle you were floating
like an island, a lonely planet...
sleepless nights with airplanes landing.
I couldn't hear above their roar;
I yelled for you 'til my throat was hoarse.

* * * * *

And so I stir, spoon in coffee,
wondering when to lift and taste.
Bittersweet we may always be,
and if I find that that's the case,
I may nod and go, or hide, or stay,
but you'll have to fix things any way.
This is what's inside of you,
this battle waged inside of you,
and each taste you choose to give me,
every one is bittersweet.
It is you and me, yes,
but it's bittersweet.

I dreamt I played the perfect song,
and forgot it when I paused too long.
I dreamt I drove, or maybe flew,
but crashed along my way to you.
I woke and walked along the street,
ghetto trash on foreign feet;
looked and saw no signs of life,
all alone in the night.
So I kept on walking down the street,
singing, "you and me, we're bittersweet."
"You and me...it's bittersweet."

~06/2006

Sitting at the Piano

Sitting at the piano,
a blue note on my fingers,
her hands upon my head.
I struck a chord to mean
we're discordant and disdained,
but it came out right instead.

Sitting in her sleeping car,
riding shotgun like a movie star,
dancing without shoes.
But your fears made you afraid,
and that is why you ran away,
still hoping I would chase you.

Can't you see that I'm an actor?
I told you things I never meant.
Maybe we can't take the stress;
maybe you just cannot bend.
And every note I play is blue,
every chord I strike is you;
and though right now they ring true,
they will fade to nothing if abused.

Sitting at the piano,
a soft touch in my fingers,
caresses all for you.
You're beautiful and much much more,
but if you choose to kill the chord,
I'll trash the whole damn tune.

~07/2006

Blood on the Sheets

So now there's blood on the sheets;
it looks like a murder but it's 10 times as sweet.
I held you in my hands,
I looked you in the eyes,
and we danced without missing a beat.

So now there's clothes on the floor;
I've stolen things that I cannot return.
Embarrassed but I will not leave;
I am the most beautiful thief,
and I have found my way into your core.

So now there's blood on the sheets,
shaking and shivering from my head to my feet.
I held you in my hands,
I looked you in the eyes,
and we danced without missing a beat.

So now there's blood on the sheets;
a murder, a murder! we put on repeat.
As they take the bed into the morgue,
lift the covers and you will see
two naked bodies lying underneath.

~08/2006

Ménage-à-trois

Smile, serendipity,
and fortune, put on your make-up.
Tonight I will win you over;
tomorrow I'll make love to you.
For a poker player who courts his cards
with a pair of queens will win the hand;
and when one kisses the dice he rolls,
luck will fuck him where he stands.

~03/2007

Situation #6

When I set fire to the air,
and burned heaven to the ground,
the whole world was mad at me,
and God decided he'd better come down.
That's when you got on your knees
to speak for me to the Almighty:
"he didn't mean harm, or anything of the sort;
and besides, angels make such lovely fireworks."

~03/2007

Half Right

You're no private school;
there's tradition in all the rules.
If only it were easy,
like one less head, an empty seat, but
I've got voices that follow me.
They talk to me,
condescendingly.

You're no math exam;
I can't study my way into being a man,
or cheat inside of any class,

because this is only fail or pass.

I've got voices that condemn me:
they're temporary,
as is my sanity.

You're no flag salute;
I sing anthems in a tie and suit,
but they don't mean a thing
if I don't believe in what I sing.
I've got lyrics that betray me,
as if they hate me.
They hate me.

You're a book to read,
half of which I'll never see.
You're a voice in me,
half of which I'll never hear.

~06/2007

Tranquilizer

Soft shoot, not to kill:
big brother needs another mindless slave.
He traps you with dumbed-down propaganda
and phantoms of reality, and
30,000 days in the life later and you're dead
as a bolt, a deadbolt, aptly named;
It locks you in a carbon-copied casket.
And so the tranquilizer becomes, in effect,
more deadly than the bullet.

~07/2007

Sabotage

If you're feeling a little blind,
well, so am I.
Not that sabotage feels wrong
when you're the one who made the bomb.
It's a sort of stark surrealism:
a view that could rival an eagle's,
with a troubling lack of vision.

I'm sorry to say I'm not as self-assured
as I pretend or as you might've heard.
You're a sort of soft sabotage,
keeping quiet in the crowd,
but showing me like it's a badge.
I'd break the laws to make you proud,
but God knows we're not allowed.

If you're feeling like a bomb,
well, hold on.
I'll cut the wires and stop the song
so we won't sing of sabotage.
It's a sort of saintly sin
to see this far through all the din,
and dirt, and death of half-desired dreams...
isn't it better than facing your fears?
Isn't it? Tell the truth,
because all I fear is you.

~09/2007

Faith in Fiction

I wish I were addicted, because
addiction's an excuse, and
I could use a lie or two.
But deceiving yourself
is harder than you might imagine.
All my brain's gone to hell,
and my heart's probably worse;
I've made love such a sin
that it's become my addiction.

I want to be a politician, because
then you'd see me in a suit.
I've got looks and a mind to boot,
but they don't count for nothin':
I want a goal I can pursue.
All my love's in automatic transmission,
and all my life is shifting gears;
I wish that I had faith in fiction,
but my skepticism is far too dear.

I wish that I were licked,
defeated, face down in the dust.
It wouldn't be my responsibility anymore,
and I wouldn't have to make decisions;
I could simply blame this
all on my addictions, instead
of feeling the perpetual fear
that these are the wages of my sin...
the wages of my sin.

I wish that I had faith in fiction.
I wish that I had faith in fiction.

~09/2007

Translations

While we lie together under the bed,
hiding from each other,
trying to race ahead;
I open my mouth and there's no question,
but is there an answer?
Guess it depends on how far we run...
how far we'll run.

And so we stare and share a communion.
This room is a church;
this life, an illusion.
Seeing no evils, and hearing not one;
trying to translate,
but we're speaking in tongues.

While we hibernate, thinking of winter,
deciphering each other
and becoming the symbols;
I feel that I have something to prove,
but I can't decide what,
so I'll leave that up to you...
I'll leave it up to you.

And so we stare and share a communion.
This room is a church;
this life, an illusion.
Seeing no evils, and hearing not one;
trying to translate,
but we're speaking in tongues.

Your kiss, it's a moment's breadth,
a lion's roar, a joker's jest,
and I can't decide what to do with it.
Your eyes betray that they want to win,
and if I gave you the opportunity,
would you pass it up?
Would you defeat me?

So while we smile in our seclusion,
we seek conclusions to these tales.
We're well aware they have no beginnings,
and happy to try though we know we'll fail.
Come with me, speak in tongues...
we'll find our own translations.

~10/2007

The Capitalist Puddle

There once was a puddle
that rained turned into a pond.
The more it poured,
it started toward
a lake with fishes and frogs.
Fed by flowing streams,
it burst along the seams,
and became a sea.

Then with sudden motion
it flooded its banks,
collected some lakes,
and turned itself into an ocean.

~01/2008

The Lost Wolf

I searched all my life
for reasons; they were hidden.
I've been thanked, loved, beaten,
but not forgiven.
"Blessed are they that are not afraid,"
and as I look at you, I know,
here I'm weak, here you're brave.

I judged with a fist
and a stony face, and gavel;
I babbled on like a lawyer,
but you welcomed my drivel.
And with an open heart, you let me in,
accepted back to where I belong.
No-one else knows where I've been.

I loved like a lost wolf:
your bitemarks, my rack of lamb.
Full moon is come, there's no infection;
my love, oh, you still stand.
And with your hand you do absolve me,
tame the beast, so he believes
that all else is raindrops;
you're the sea.

~01/2008

Rats Don't Run for Fun

You say I'm the rat;
I say I'm the wheel.
No cage could hold me in
or halt the way I feel.
I invented love on your behalf;
Apollo played his harp;
Rome and Greece burned down
as I serenaded in the dark.

You say I'm the rat;
I say, well, look again.
My tail is gone, as you see,
and my tale doesn't have an end.
Seven years will pass,
famine will take hold of Earth,
but I will eat my hoard of grain
while I wander, wait, and curse.

You say I'm the rat;
I say the rat is dead.
Scientists will come and go,
but I'll just go to bed.
I put on clothes, my Sunday Best,
to worship gods that are not there.
I ran upon my wheel till dawn
and realized that no-one cares.

~01/2008