C’est La Vie

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I remember

the fire and the ice and the winds and the waves

but I’ve forgotten

her smile

the way he used to laugh;

such is life, they say

but time

has carved away at the cliff face of my memories,

the same way sand carves away at the stones upon the seashore.

 

I remember

everything we left unspoken

but I’ve forgotten

the words we spoke, under the unfaithful stars.

I remember the ending,

but not how it all began,

because such is life,

or at least that’s what they say.

 

I remember

my life in symphony with yours;

such was our life, together –

and such is how it ended –

two divergent paths,

having met at a crossroads,

inevitably returning to their separate ways –

an ill-fated love,

doomed from the start;

but such is life.

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Love, Vanquished

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“Why don’t you write a joyful poem?”

S’il vous plait,” she says to me,

“Poetry”- a subject about which we have spoken comparatively little,

“Is mournful by nature.”

 

I am struck, as if by lightning,

Not by her seeming revelation

About the nature of the artform in question,

But by the formality of her please.

 

She is one of those dying breed of people –

The ones who understand with brutal intimacy

The difference between te and vous,

The ones who use language like the fine edge of a blade,

Ruthless, remorseless, ravenous,

Knowing just where to wound –

How to throw salt upon one’s soul

So it will strike those pulsing, jagged wounds,

How to wield a fire, wild to the last,

And tame it.

 

I am silent,

And she switches back to English,

But I cannot speak,

Not in one language, nor in two.

 

Poetry,

I’ve found,

Is, indeed, mournful by nature,

Not unlike the art of love.

Devil May Cry

fallen-angel

 

 

The Prince of Hell was wearing a crown of thorns,

And the fruits of the tree had similarly fallen, ripe and round and ready,

Upon the fertile soil of an Eden in sublime abandon,

And Lucifer’s heart, hollow by day,

Had drunk deeply of the dusk light

In a world upon which the sun never set,

But now, as night bled into day,

He wondered how to strike his devil’s bargain with the unmerciful clock,

Contemplated why so many philosophers

Had wondered how many angels can dance upon the head of a pin,

When it was so clear to him

That he was the only one who would ever be made to do so;

“The Devil made me do it,”

He’d say, delirious,

As another night passed,
Dreamlessly.

Sacrilege

icarus

 

The trees

Look like the sea of my dreams,

Today.

 

They are the rough waters

Into which I have fallen,

And these November currents

Are as brutal as they come.

 

They are fragments

Of a different life,

The one I’d thought I’d live,

The one that came and went

As swiftly as Lucifer did,

His chains swinging, singing as they fell,

And Him –

Weeping, not for himself,

But for mankind.

 

They are the fault lines

Upon which my city is built,

The fractalized wooden sentinels

That stand in lieu of worshippers

Within the House of the Savior

After it’s abandonment

Some time long and long ago.

eschatology: a poem

beam-me-up-goddy

 

(Eschatology: Noun. The theological study of the fate of the world.)

 

I am the rain that falls,
Redemptive;

I am the wind
That wearies the wanderer.

I am the silence
That befalls all sound.

Youth

dandelion-bess

 

I can think of no better metaphor

Than the glorifying sun

Yielding to the inkwell of the night

At the end of everything;

Time – such a cruel mistress –

Finally running out,

The sand in the hourglass

Surrendering the last of itself

At the journey’s end;

And, at long last, it was over.

The Boulevard

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I’d walk for miles just to get back there,

Back to the fullness of my youth,

Back to the sweetness of summer,

The petrol fumes pungent in the August air,

Cherry ice cream on my lips,

The Boulevard,

Where I went to watch life,

As it happened without me,

While I stood on the median

In the midst of the swirling gas stains on the asphalt

And the blaring of horns,

And me,
Watching, waiting, silent, still,

Seeing the Boulevard not as she was,

But as she wanted to be –

A dusty road that led only unto itself,

Upon which the sun was always setting.