The Lie in the Candle

She bends at the waist and

Her hair is a fury- it fights like a wild thing possessed.

False sprigs of cypress curl smoke

From the mouth of the oven, the brick cherry red

With the heat.

The air has gone dry, and the eye of the ocean is open,

It sees to the floor, out the door to the north.

Paint it all blue, for the chi, for the life left inside there,

Where she cooks,

What she casts,

With those cats underfoot.

As she smiles the two smiles that she has, maybe one, maybe not,

Maybe both, it depends,

On the fire in the wood, and the blood on her hands.

But the truth in the witch is a

Lie in the candle,

A light left undimmed, whether free or kept chained.

Just the spectre of freedom, a plaid in the heather

Swept down the river, and

Lost in her howl.

The Deal

who made this deal that I would be in this skin for this life
thin lines of grease paint ran off my fingertips into the cracks in the concrete
as I sat there with my overpriced tea and orange confection of unhealthiness
overhearing, no listening openly,
to the sales pitch of an acting class hustler,
guaranteeing this poor bastard he would be a star,
dropping the Denzels and the Tom Cruise,
talking Walking Dead and Lee Daniels.
It was a great moment when he dared to correct her...
all wrapped in her uninformed costume of middle age
and he all of 20...
but he knew to correct her when she said
say the script says you play a preacher,
are you going to be an Al Sharpton,
are you going to be a Jesse Jackson,
or a Martin Luther...
he said, Martin Luther King, Jr?
Honest to God did she not know the difference between the two?
Honest to God did she not see he could play whomever he wants,
if he wants,
not just black preachers. I was appalled for him,
but that's just me thinking I have any right to think anything,
when I don't,
because all I have is this skin I am in...
but I do know better than that.
When she told you to get over yourself
about roles you said you would not take,
I had to leave
before she turned you completely into a whore.
Keep your morals, keep your dreams,
Best of Luck to you, kid.
I'll buy a ticket...
hell, I already did. It's called Starbucks.

Vintage

In ruined vineyards,
It is possible it is better to be alone,
Es possible esta mejor ser solamente uno,
hiding insecurities and unchanging lacks of judgement,
beneath the heavy hair of wanton vines,
between the sighing rows of perspiring leaves,
escaping the lucious desires of grapes begging to be picked,
mingling inside the mouth- the jaded
richness of old wine and 
the bitter sour of new wine that will never be pressed.

Nothing is beyond the imagination of tastes,
Even the dying man- condemned-
salivating his solitary last moments away
in recall of divine repasts,
and vintages too pregnant with joie de vivre
to be forgotten.

Acres of sunflower heads
dried of their crowns and beauty,
food for crows and old women,
fit companions enough for the
shadows that stalk the sunset,
lengthening their presence toward the silvered olives,
sinking low into soft chairs,
in the days when
nothing is left to be done,
all consigned to the care of the seasons,
Es possible en la nieve lavarse.
Es possible en la lluvia dormir. 

Sylace
July 2016


This was written on the train between Rome and Florence, as we passed miles and miles of vineyards and sunflowers in Tuscany, and one vineyard in particular was left in ruin...which I only glimpsed for seconds at 225 mph. But that is life, after all, going by so fast, and some of it in ruins. 

Every Day That is Left

Showered with dust
from fleet bee left-behinds-
his crop-dusting feet,
so unwitting and wild,
the field a mad riot,
sowed at last year's tea dance,
floral progeny bow to the wind
and make pacts,
to live full this one Summer,
to bloom bright until death,
to make love,
like a flower and bee-
every day that is left.


for Melanie A. and her bees

Wheel

I have bled in all the colors,
Black disaster, glory green,
Red ribbons on the church doors,
Yellow ribbons on the trees,
and Blue ribbons for the winners,
few and far between.

I have bled the same for ages,
petty highs when life was sweet,
orange shirts to mark the abject,
violet bruises on their cheeks.
One white sheet to lay your head on,
rescue comes in sleep.

Marvel

We would like to think we stride through life,
but for the most part we crawl,
dragging ourselves daily
through force of will,
seeking to generate enough lift
to overcome the gravity of our situation.

We have all flown at one time or another,
pervasive memory
imprinting us with soaring beliefs
we wear like black and white tattoos of lines,
written in the script of ferocity,
the block print of survival.
A graphical representation of times
our fathers tossed us high in the air,
our mothers hugged us near and laughed
at our antics,
and all the times we won-

The anxious battle within...
The tedious battle without...

The absolute marvel of the human mind's capacity to endure.