Cornucopia Family Ties

brimming white blankets and you a centerfold in it
angel,
stuck with the two axes of your arms and legs
pointing like gods own fingers towards the sun,
and the heavens,
and a cotton-candy world that was made
for you
to live in,
for planting heart shaped petal kisses
and palms of pink paint, spelling your name and
the name of a certain strain of
butterfly.
(anti social(,at times negligeble for what we’d call “ambi social))
spilled words and i’m sorries that
didn’t mean much to you,
or perhaps it was just a
missed connection through the
english channel
that made me think
you didn’t really love me anymore
and my fire was too hot,
and your fire was so small.

pro tector of all that is holy,
please be merciful (i said)
on that holy day when day is night in the
middle of the day,
and the birds stop their singing
and the crickets stop their cricketing
and money is of no value,
i seep into your translucent skin,
finding nutrients that no one could concieve of
and that minds could not listen,
forged myself into you
and my new family,
my mother (a soft-ripened peach)
my father (a tough, calloused mellon)
and you,
my brother
my yellow apple brother,
not yet browned and crisped with dewdrops.

i live while you laugh,
and this family is riddled with too many
that cover up for the sound of cries
because i was the only fruit in the basket
who didn’t like lies.

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

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A Man As a Gun

to pester myself until I find myself,
scattered in places beyond the places,
reaching for things that I can’t
have.

upwards swinging on a downward spiral,
the edges of the minutes are my own minutes,
and though your minutes may closely match
my minutes,
they are not as heavy or as old.

I dug into skin that wasn’t there,
as renewed memories, blood rose to tops of hairs like
internal bleeding run amok,
floods of my own self and My Desires,
exeptions of gravity time space
so could fall into a perfect uncertainty,
and the old just-standing-and-existing feeling of
being able to see a person and
know that they feel nothing remotely close
to the agonies of being human:

or if they did,
marvelous as it was how they could
fit their parts of being into this nonplussed, nonevented,
nonremorse-anxiety,
to find themselves existing in a miraculous hampering,
(tho i am the one that knows how to survive,
and where to find the fire,
so i say,
in the building of you).

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

The Empty Ears of a Stranger

The first musing

Finally, a door opens on a busy city street,
and the faint sound of a billowing streetcar on the run
leaves my hands
a sweaty mess
and a picture of you
steps into my quivering mind.

It appears as no man might see it
lips there,
eyes a set frame
from there to the strand of hair that lies
so precariously on your cheek
mirroring the things you say
offhand
out of the blue
and as bold as the day is new.

In a dream

(She is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost,
faded and half-captured before the lens could flash.
I see all of her
and yet
I can’t
describe her.

She’s a winning horse eh?
I’d bet on her yet, had I even an ounce of courage
which
so far
has been the only thing
I seem to lack.
yes, she is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost
she is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost
she is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost…),

the second musing

Then there is also that strange fascination I have with
WORDS
WORDS
WHICH WE SEEM TO HAVE
A LOT OF.
Tell me, dear,
why you seem to lack the ability
to keep your promises to the other side?
I can certainly stand the game
but not if you weren’t even allowed to play.
If something held you back that
didn’t even have to do with me, I mean
What of it then? Would it be any fun?
Would I even
laugh like it was some sort of taunting joke,
a rhetorical question which you so obviously know the answer to?
no, no….
I’ll answer, in my own good time,
but-
the answer’s not the point, is it?
The answer, perhaps,
is
to lie in your arms
while somewhere in the distance
my insides let out a scream so well muffled
that it’s vibration would only cause a slight tremor
in the ripples of the air.
Now you bat at it,
and the sound of me wafts through the open window.
take a look at it, you say
that is the true
you.
but In reality
the only sound we can emit
is stone cold
silent
electricity.

the third musing

Perhaps I can deceive myself into believing
that when the music sings of you
you were simply
whispering a song
into the empty ears of a stranger
or to me
as I lie thinking
in the late, late abandoned hours of the night.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Moon-Silver

and up on the slope
where the moon-silver hides
the rain,
the rise
the pause between
the eyes

and up upon the slope
is winter on the run
and as she grips my hand
i feel
so nearly undone

the battling wind,
the groping cries
the rain
the rise
the intimate sighs

(and we begin,
and the stars we barely reach….)

~~~~~~

I laugh, we laugh
I and you and me laugh
strangely and unforced laugh
fine for spring and day laugh

gold on string and squirrel laugh
wakes up coat and shoe laugh
world is waking
frost is breaking
feeling for
the dreamer
that’s rising and running,
the rest, almost
unseener

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

“Agnus Angst”

As the new years begin
Im a lost little stranger
running vainly from danger
that’s crowding me in.

so its all the same me
only just slightly older
and just slightly bolder
and slightly fourteen.

what is it that they like?
that they always look
for?
what’s this thing they talk of?
of the girl that’s next door?
can’t see? you shut them up!
I’m not her, she’s a bore!

(come on, the day is just so clear, Octavius
just look around Octavius
don’t dumb and smile Octavius
be mature:
Im fourteen with spunk,
but at least I can be demure)

I can’t pick out my friends
and instead of just you
you might give me the flu
give me something to do!
(yes, multitask!
you don’t have to ask!
be an octopus!
get the doctor, wuss! )
okay, but you’re the one whose crazy, dude.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry