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Thought about happiness

I find it increasingly interesting, that at this point in our history our power, technology and ability makes the Greek pantheon look like babes by comparison, and yet our knowledge of happiness is no more than the understanding acquired by Aristotle.

Nocturne

-- From Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

As your nocturnal neighbor,
I slide next to you in Winter,
whispering across your breath,
the South Wind's wildest words.
When dawn warms the
window glass, and
marmalade flame transverse
the ceiling, I carefully
caress your lips with
thinly sliced strawberry,
and mango until you smell
the fresh roast brewing
in the kitchen and are ready to brace
against the cold tile floor
and shower steam.
As you are now,
stretched in graceful
recline, I see illusion,
projected on the silk
of your skin by
my mind; a rendering
in my image.
I stare to
burn my eyes,
to go blind,
so I can see your-self,
not my after-image.
My what-you-ought-to-be's
are tangled in your hair,
my wishes constrict your hips
bruising what is you.
It is difficult
to see with eyes
unclouded by wish
and ought-to's.
Hard to recognize illusion;
to realize that while I smell
your perfume, and feel the
heart beat of your thigh
What I feel, is not
what I see.
Precious enough are the moments,
that you are you;
precious enough to
sear my eyes,
so to experience each hair
and lash through the
boiling steam, and notice that
Winter has turned to Spring.

A Cardiac Episode


There is a hollow carved in me,
an area created by hepatic knurling.
A space which serves as a hospice
for my Care, and Hope.
A place where these two
are given warm towels
light but tasty food, and
236 channels of cable TV
for entertainment while they
wait and bleed. I can
hear the rasp of their
labored breath; the choking
hemoptysis; the lesion wails
they cry into their pillows when
they believe no one else is
around. My heart is
heavy from the ichnite
filling the spaces
they have fallen from;
I drift in hemal circles.


-- from Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

Lunacy

from Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

With the eddy motion
of autumnal fog -- hushed
as last breath around
the shanks of men -- the
Moon strolls to her apex;
planets are  her path stones.
Her lunette breasts sheathed
in the fabric of lithium clouds,
keened sheer by the West wind,
distract even far flown storm.
Her youth is vibrant;
Kev blue eyes, promethium
skin. Her passage silent;
latria songs marquertied in the
mercerized gown across her thighs.
The radiant goddess of the manes,
and mercurial denizens; who shift
through islands of amber light
and shadows bloated with night;
the hiemal ecosystem of the
streets below.
Those whose lives are ruled by tides,
respect her budding aspect, aware
that these maturing eyes remember
the snarled hours of her crone,
and the ensanguine gown
sometimes worn on nights she
is in bloom; hungry.

Even in her darkest age -- her petals flint,
her brilliance burned -- she entices
latent swells to rise and churn.
Men and women of the tides and sea
have heard the whales sing to
her noir-waters above, twining
the celestial to earth with
bind-song harmonies of worship
and love.
Those of lupine nature are more repine,
knowing all of her aspects are heady and
sublime. The call and howl from deep
wood and vale, for the West wind to
bring her full cloak and hood, to cover
her lunar light and its silver urn, before
the world is warped by the
effusion vapors of quicksilver burn.

Walking through Logan

Here I move among the happenings,
breathing the miasmas of needing,
hearing the the wrenching seizures of solitude
and foot fall through the shallows
of winter's waters
horded in pot-holes.
In the dark looks, under the heavy brows
of the shadows limping past, needing,
I see their eyes are no longer
lucid devices.
Headlights and Broadways
by static amber light and
speeding white-blue
a boy picks from the gutter
not a toy,
or a ball,
not a coin,
but the death of a squirrel
holding it high
bushy brush tail wire
between thumb and forefinger
Joy
alarms from his lips
but there is too much alarm
on these streets
for others to notice.

The Furies and Lucidity

You hear a hundred darker lines
each turn of the sunlight
mine are only troubling
in an articulate way
The voice of the calling
from outside the amber light
inside the edge of shadows
is easy to ignore
He is mad you say
His is intoxicated and estranged
He is not me you say
You walk on untouched
My words are ruthless lucidity
Dark, yes, Shadow, yes... clear
not coal for wrath
but edged for bloodletting
Within the melee and uproar
of the towering full moon
may my words taint
the madness calling
and open to you,
the woes and the furies in his drunken heart


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