In The Drawing RoomIt's a rendezvous; a candid affair;
but it's never been about the romance
and romance has never been a part of it.
Drinking whiskey from folded leaves
and sitting knee-to-knee
in a dusty room;
cobwebs glinting in the corners
from the lights caught in our eyes;
a blaze of drunken pupils.
There are apples in a silver bowl
on the windowsill,
There would be wine,
I thought once the wine would be
but you bring whiskey,
and I don't ask questions.
I know the wine is rather His,
and you've always been a rebel.
You fold your arms across your breast.
A knee is jolting nervously
kicking dust up from the floorboards.
The words flit between us in a haze,
this is a candid affair
and even if I never signed up for it,
I never really turned you down.
I closed my eyes and here we sit.
The edges blur into oblivion;
dreams are always curled around the edges,
smudged by smoke and wisps of weary thoughts;
the details never s
Icarus Was Only HomesickTick! It's 2am.
The chain on my neck is growing cold;
a piece of twisted silver chills the hollow of my throat,
pulling goose-pimples across my skin.
It's summer and the fan is drumming lowly
from the window frame,
from honey-suckles and clean, trimmed grass.
The chain is gleaming.
I belong here and somehow
I'm a mare pounding the plains
in the Americas;
a pearl in some fancy glass jar;
pewter on the end of a chain.
Someone put me on the doorstep
in my infancy
a time I can't remember,
can't resent -
but I know.
The cradle is mine, now,
this world a part of me,
I can't remember.
There are no crickets pulling songs
across their rigid legs,
But I know somewhere they're keening
and it calms me.
Tick! It's 3am.
I thought my love, my past,
my oldest footfalls
rooted down in Africa.
I know, I know, I know:
that's home for us.
But not exactly.
The chain around my neck is cold.
Who last held it?
Who created it?
MythosSomewhere up in the velvet halls of Heaven
Valhalla rivers of honey flowing up a jewel-encrusted throne
some tempered beast with thorns wrapped 'round his skull
the face of a hawk feet enclosed with wings arms like spider-legs
plucks ambrosia from a golden cup and swats at the flies and snakes that try to sneak a bite
the beast king Allah savior Zeus descends on a cloud a golden chariot and claps for Kokopelli running barefoot in the Garden
some strip of nothing stretching nowhere in the ether where ashes to ashes dust to dust maggots in the grave and all that
Icarus wheeling uselessly outside the window races with a whirlybird dragon all scales and teeth and paper skin
and some Siren calling up to him
her rock in the ocean in the shadow of Atlantis the Golden City a blemish on the turtle's back
a bug-eyed raven pitches in to gobble up the golden fish
where high up in the clouds a bearded ma