“Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for our miseries and yet it is, itself, the greatest of our miseries.” — Blaise Pascal
Oh, distraction,
you paradoxical bastard–
Sky laughs, stays open.
“Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for our miseries and yet it is, itself, the greatest of our miseries.” — Blaise Pascal
Oh, distraction,
you paradoxical bastard–
Sky laughs, stays open.
“I’d woken up early, and took a long time getting ready to exist.”– Fernando Pessoa
In the early morning, a yawn
brought tears to his eyes,
and then the agonizing consideration
of his metaphysical wardrobe,
and how he should appear to himself,
or to the mirrors held up
in the back of his skull–
Breakfast,
he crowed loudly
to no one,
yes, some buttered toast
and good strong dark coffee
before attempting anything
to do with the management
of self
along remotely intimate
psychic edges.
“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star” – William Wordsworth
Once upon a star,
lyrics mated with the dark–
Memory was born.
“Essentially, mythologies are enormous poems that are renditions of insights, giving some sense of the marvel, the miracle and wonder of life.” – Joseph Campbell
Brokering
the truest gold
from the radiant core
of melting mortal want,
your life
is the poem
and metaphor
upon which
a course
is carved
and set
with infinite regard.
“After all, it is no more surprising to be born twice, than it is to be born once.” – Voltaire
On
the slow
winding
backroads
to heaven,
the soul–
burnished, braided in ash,
given to fits of symmetry,
plunged into plagues,
stuck with knives
in a circus fiasco,
hitching freights–
just keeps on going and going,
cycling through a gateless opera of lives,
herald to its own bask
and choir,
birth and death
but arbitrary checkpoints
in its endless assumption
of wonder.
“Gnossienne: A moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of the house that you’ve never fully explored—an unfinished attic that will remain maddeningly unknowable to you because ultimately neither of you has a map or a master key or any way of knowing exactly where you stand.”–from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
There,
in the unfinished attic,
where books
have gone unread
for god knows how long
and collected the skin of dust,
you wish to discover
the story that will serve as the key,
or perhaps procure a time-bitten
map from beneath a loose floorboard,
something
that will grant you the means
to travel from the attic to the basement
and back
without moving an inch–
You,
unsure as to whom
the attic belongs
(is it hers? is it yours?)
prepare to court
the pregnant dark
in what may amount
to a confession
or tryst
that no one
will ever hear about
not
in the light of day.
I am happy to announce that the hardcover edition of my new poetry book, Moonglow on Mercy Street, will be published in early December (CSF Publishing).
Anyone potentially interested in reviewing the book for their blog, or other site/forum, please contact me and I’d be happy to provide a digital PDF of the manuscript. Cheers and blessings!
MOONGLOW ON MERCY STREET
These fifty poems, most of them written in 2020, comprise a kaleidoscopic palette of tones, moods and styles, in crafting living mythology from the world at large and within. Metamorphic bop, scat-alchemy, bare bones blues and gospel, love songs and odes, pagan pop, and cinematic remixes, make of Moonglow on Mercy Street a free-range concert aimed at the imagination and the senses. And, as a lyrical pilgrimage fueled by hope and wonder, it stands as a shining testament to Henry Miller’s claim that “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”

Within
the rounded sermon
of the inanimate,
a favored coursing,
by which light
spreads its wordless
fingers
upon
the world’s private longing.
No sin
of which to speak,
always beginnings,
rogue, feral,
growing wild
among the greenest seasons
of fire
and becoming,
or, siring the form
of a dancer
dancing in the clouds,
lightning at her feet,
as the rain begins to fall,
soundless,
into the heaven
of your choice.
A thousand
and one labyrinths,
maybe more,
filled with the lost
and forlorn, weeping,
yet never losing sight
of the hidden lighthouse,
that favored legend
of which rumors have prevailed,
to guide the dreamers,
in the way that secrets
whisper into the dark
their most seasoned longing.