Cigars + Whiskey

Smoke lingers like a lullaby.

Many a manly, mumbled murmur:
“What if my shoulders break beneath my burdens?”
“I don’t understand happiness, how to really be content,
how to stop grasping for storms.”
“Some tragedies alter what dwells
in the mirror.”
“I can’t seek help, it would
make me less than-”

The door creaks open,
she walks in,
and all is
cigars and whiskey


Mankind has never been so grand
as letters pruned by poets’ hand
would lead you to expect; perhaps
if our vision would just lapse
to lower levels, slick with slime,
where dwells no image, where dreams no rhyme,
to view the work of long-past paupers
whose letters home were not so proper-
but pleas that we would quite well know
as lustful shrieks from long ago;
the mating call wiped from the slate,
through history did not abate.
Perhaps the belief would then dispel
that the Past was romance, the Present – hell.

The Old Barn

We sweat in the bleached bones of  the stable,
Which has stood a century, perhaps longer,
Where blazing manes turned and tossed,
And steely shoes beat sand to glass.

So long ago;
Now the white paint turns to dust,
The pillars slink into the earth,
The walls afford the sunlight,
And men know nothing of yesterday.

Yet here we are,
Man and woman,
Girl and boy,
Sweating in the bleached bones of the stable.

Ode to Friends Forgotten

Perhaps we sat beside each other
In some course, some class
Some bench, some beach
Some words slipping between us
Molten flecks on the breeze
Hardening over our flaws,
so long ago.
Perhaps I don’t remember you,
or you I,
But those words gild our bones
And we shall always carry them,
Bear that ornate heaviness
Ever into the night.