Dirty, Bloody, Love

On Fridays we sat through hours of films;
comedy, romance, B-grade horror, A-grade trash.
All to be close enough for our arms to touch on top of the dirty armrest.
My mind always played tricks on me when your head moved more then an inch.
Funny how an Australian slasher flick can take a backseat to your eyes so quickly.

Allium Cepa

It's like cutting the heart
out of an onion, there's always
crying involved and layers
must be shed before it can
be used, even to the most
bland of tongues.
For a moment the smell
takes you over, invoking fear
in the nostril as triggers
in your brain push
tears to your eyes.
It's similar to the burning
sensation you get when the
one person you can't get
out of your head, tells you
that they've finally gotten
you out of theirs.

10/7/07

Nothing ever moved me
the way your touch made
me desire to see the world.
Not even the night Bob Dylan
seemed to stop everything to
sing a song that dripped
directly into my veins.
Or the time I saw Jesus
in Nashville,he had
short hair, and no beard.
Yet your soft fingers
pushed past the troubadour
and the savior of Hollywood
to keep me completely still.
Maybe, in some way, you
are Europe, and this
wanderlust is simply my
desire to know you better
than I already do.

10/2/07

Sometimes I think about the
way she used to look at me.
Lips the color of peppermints.
Eyes like almond M&M's.
Like she just couldn't ever
get enough.
Sometimes I think about the
way she used to look at me,
but it's getting harder
and harder
to remember.

The Cost of Leaving

I tried reading Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" to get the feel of how Spain would be in the summer, but it doesn't sound anything like the stories you used to tell me. If it were only that easy. Then maybe I would be holding you in my arms right now instead of scribbling in this little Moleskine, wishing you were close enough to beg me to read what I was thinking. I still wouldn't. No matter how crinkled your nose gets. I like to think it's something about principle. Just come find me. It would be so much easier that way.

The Last Day in Brum

Its raining,
so normal,
as I trudge to the
newsagents just
off Bristol.
The 62 breezes by
on its way down to
City Centre, packing
people off to work
and the Bullring.
The chippies are all
closed but the smell
still hovers,
sour vinegar and old cod.
A woman pushes a buggey
and dodges an ambulance
with nimble ease.
Sara said I would
never be the same.
I think she's right,
so I pick up a
Cadbury's and Coke,
push my collar up
till it touches my ears
and brave the rain
all the way down
to London. Maybe there
I'll find what I've
been looking for.

All Souls

Here we are.
All together.
Fumbling through tradition.

Welcome all.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Pray. Confess. Recite.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Baptize.
Sprinkle the head.
Vow. Recite. Repeat.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Pray.
For war. Church. Missions.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Whats new.
Consult the scripture.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

"Turn to God."
Prostitutes. Sinners. People.
Stand up.
Sing.
Sit down.

Here we are.
All together.
Dying in tradition.

Family Bible

It used to look old,
cracked and worn from turning.
Everyday it sat on the oak table
like a glass candy dish
waiting to be opened
and its contents devoured.

It never seemed to mind
all the attention going elsewhere.
Quietly it would sit,
patiently waiting its turn.

We always came back.
Like it was calling us,
when life fell apart
we retreated to the wisdom
and worn pages of hope.
But that didn't matter.
It loved us just the same.

I let it fall once,
like a normal book.
Crumpled pages, torn binding,
coffee marred Proverbs.
It hit the wood like a hot plate
shattering around the feet
of my embarrassed mother.

But that didn't matter.
It just waited to picked up.
Patient and diligent
just like I had read.

It used to look old,
wordy, out of date.
But it doesn't mind.
It just waits for us to see
beyond the thees and thous.

Maybe someday I will.

Table #3

Pale green
the grass in early Spring,
up, like her eyes.
Freckled nose
worn, as the
tops of her hands.
Safe,
glimmering eyes.
Not so different
then dew on glass,
pouting slowly
at my approach.
I wonder what
she's thinking?

At Lunch

If this was London, would you be impressed by someone simple as I?
Or would it be like productions down West End and rooms at the Savoy.
Maybe a smile could be enough,if it was lit by the water in St. James Park.
Is that how love looks?
Laying in the sun, ducks playing by two year-olds as a football glides across the green.
Or a slow night walking down Holloway, radiant clouds and awkward stares.
Would you love me if nothing ever changed?
If London was still in a different country?
If your eyes left mine?
Does it take silence to show how much I'm afraid?
Quietly sitting across the table, wishing I could come up with something so you would notice me.
Is it working?

Untitled #11

Stiffling passion
underneath folded arms,
intently gazing at
a world so foreign.
Neutral colors.
Chestnut locks.
Wicked eyes.
Tempered cheeks.
Dropped like a tulip
among roses.
Silently sitting,
fists clinched.
Waiting on the
world to move.

Love at a Distance

I have seen light,
radiant as the sun,
dipping low across
the English horizon.
Beat, O heart as
waves, feeling
the last spark of
heat from the
fading star.

These eyes,
tired from night,
want for the
sight of fleeting
beauty and
everlasting grace,
locked deep in
the last rays over
the summer Thames.

Be it not for brevity
of speech and the
feeble plight dealt
to lovers at sundown,
caught between
the sun's fire and
the frigid water.
Fire and ice
stranded in the
hopeless gaze
careening from
her eyes.

Oh, if distance
were but a word
not a hindrance,
then would love
be true, steadfast,
complete.

Untitled #16

For what it's worth,
the argument that
ten hours isn't that
far away had to
be originated by
someone in love
with their next
door neighbor.

The Wizard of Odd

It's a red bricked road
seen through yellowing eyes.
A small white cat
setting fire to a lion
made of straw.
The disgruntled dwarf
yelling at a farm boy about
his funny haircut, lost
inside the fury of
a hurricane
in Nebraska.
It's emerald shoes on
a girl in Starbucks as
I slowly melt into a
man made of tin.
Here's to the world
thats upside down,
and the one I see
when I'm
dreaming.

Maybe

If only I could stop looking for
more then the length of Bob Dylan's
"If You See Her, Say Hello."
How nice would a distraction be,
like a marathon of Cary Grant or
Bogart films playing against the
back of my eyelids.
Maybe I could wake up and only
see the lines from "The Sun Also Rises."
Then I could stop worrying about
running into you every time
I open my eyes.
Maybe.

Untitled #6

Calm as brush strokes
she disregarded
every single thing
I said.

Dovehouse Green

Pigeons scrounging.
Rye, birdseed,
concrete, grass.
Pillar for the fallen
used as a toilet
by a small Boxer
who chases away
the birds.
Rolling on the lawn,
neglecting his stick,
and master.
Jumping on walkers.
Smudging books.
Soiling jeans.
As happy as
can be.

London Pt. 2

It's coffee and a muffin
down on Fleet Street
at eleven in the morning.
Out of place amongst
the slim fit charcoal
suits that normally
take up residence.
It's hearing Farsee
on the nineteen,
trying to get to
Piccadilly on time,
stuck in traffic
in Holborn.
It's a lady having
a row with
a TFL official all
because the Victoria
is shut down for
the weekend.
Stuck north of
Highbury, forced to
walk all the way
from Arsenal.
It's a middle aged
woman, eyes closed,
singing with Elton,
for Diana.
A grown man putting
down his Carling and
taking notice of a tribute.
It's the American cashier
at Starbucks. The Indian
barrista, Spanish
housekeeper, and
Australian guest.
It's the Queen,
the busker,
Chinatown,
and St. Pauls.
All completely different.
All perfectly at home.

30/6/07

It's bourbon and whiskey
from old oaken barrels,
sitting next to a large
framed man with a
long stemmed pipe.

In, out.
In, out.

The smoke billows
into the air with
the aroma of cherries
and old bathrooms.
The spirits swirl
in the glass as he
slowly sips away.

Up, down.
Up, down.

It's eleven thirty.
Not much time.
Pack it again
then say goodbye.

In, out.
In, out.

The smoke has gone
the way off the buffalo.

On Slowly Dying, Voluntarily

O' troubled soul.
Lost amidst the wars
and frivolities of
post-modern America.
Searching for truth
in a world uncertain,
drunk on desperation.

O' wounded heart,
crimson from battle.
Clinging to a life
that isn't yours.
Clutching swords,
sharp enough to
scar the wielder.
Where is your
battle song?
The sweet melody
of dirges, victory
tunes, too far gone
to be remembered.

O' trifled spirit,
where is your love?
Sick from war
and famine, longing
for a simpler life.
Breathe in deep,
feel emptiness
in your stomach,
tangible as cancer

Is this all you have left?
Or shall you stand up,
refuse to be
driven back by
mere arrows?