pouring

here comes the dripping pouring full
of adventure knowing no boundaries and
i stay laden with my oddities forever or
until such time as my eccentricities escape
this frame of referential deference to
the writers of great poetry and books who
sometimes send flowers to the world and
other times send their regrets for the
villainies of humankind – villainies spilling
over into colors shed on playgrounds in houses
and nobody hears the crying they’re all out
under the banners by the loudspeakers telling
all of us they care more than we can manage
within the dripping hues of environmental spillage
emotional situations that tear into listlessness
like empty phrases torn from the pages poured
out like libations to the local priestess of
broken promises

the days grew old

the days grew old, and so did we in strife
the years we wasted battling at words
within the walls of husbandry and wife
in tangled vines of grapes, beset by birds

and happy in our misery, it seemed —
we never sheared where shearing was required:
the watch upon the desk, it fairly gleamed
in telling us our bit of time’d expired

the celebrations rang outside our walls,
the laughter of the others who remained;
again to see: what stands as surely falls,
and are by wine, at last, as deeply stained

    we saw the days grow old atop our tow’rs
    and times grow dark that are, and had been, ours

emotional diathermancy

he asked, but no one seemed to know the reasons
or hazarded so much as a small guess
why wasted time fills up the best of seasons
and leaves him to a life of emptiness

in roil dynamic or in static posing
a tag of nothing but diathermance
to radiate within secure enclosing
with only pallid nonsignificance

he asked, but no one gave him much to go on
he read, but found no clue to get him there
he knows that used or not, the days will flow on
a spinning wheel
that leaves him
in the air

[…the space between infinities…]

the masters of the universe
the mistresses of pain
the fortunes of the other folks
their houses down the lane

a passion for veracity
a cavalcade of fun
a phone call in the dead of night
to be the only one

an afternoon of pleasure spent
an instant on the way
an overarching sadness that
engulfs the everyday

a word or two that hides its face
the comfort we don't give
the space between infinities
where we choose not-to-live

the music of the hidden heart
that keeps in how it feels
the whitewash on the sepulcher
the tomb of our ideals

the aftershock the ambulance
the cold and bloody dawn
the moment after of all of it
the tv goes
back on