through the distant moors that diminish moonbeams
down to the murk of ageless water,
sitting there like a written raven feather
lays the darkness of embers
through which we must learn to breathe
in a struggle without lore.
i remember the catcalls, the cries for dear mother
and the black swath called loneliness
that intensifies to a dark envelope
around the licentiousness of people.
i could have told you a few stories maybe
about the Weird West
what he had on for news the day his father was murdered
or how he figured his lady
had been some prize like a white orchid meant to adorn the cosmos
with her beauty,
some brambles of imagination in his head
before the hammers of work beat them to flattened pulp
and his lady went with another mouth
instead of his lips that held wine,
something else there too but darker
about the inherent lack of virtue
wrapped up and discarded too even
by the pigs of the Earth
who had strangled the concept of home.
used to know other stories that died.
how is that? were they beautiful? the sadness is they all were
but we don't speak of such things
when there are fake flowers on the dinner table
or when the jackasses come over with rape in their eyes
and we are polite
because something false inside of us
tells us that these are or were friends.
too many overcast skies in the past
though these seem heavy with the death of heart
we carry our bones in our arms through silence
and let these travesties past
as though they were smaller workings
of some insipid needle
or like a stain of tea on a white shirt
were meant to be discussed with others as trifles
instead of a fulminating harrowing burgeon
of black clouds ahead and past,
all the tragedy of passing amid strangers
with nothing but a frail wrist to shield our tired faces
as they do it again and again,
those backroom butcheries
set amid the consistent fall of man.
i used to know failure amid terror
but all i had to do was hold out my arms for no one
because then it seemed important
to keep putting on the actor's faces and manners
when their were people out there
really killing each other
before they came home to their children
to offer them the lessons of murder.
spent a few coins on some cigars
and how they burn like some objective external pain
that as a snagged fishing line got caught in the universal plan
before taking us overboard
and then some of the good ones too
who were brave enough to not be morally ambiguous or cute
but lacked the sense of not being too good
while black star me sided with beauty only
and left love here and there for the starving stray dogs,
the ones that look at you with pleading eyes
so that you have to remove yourself from the alley
to remind yourself that they're still human.
if i could wind a ribbon
around all of this i would
and say merely that was this
and it was their ways
and maybe falsely
that we were really charmed
but the terror of age
is the realization that things aren't funny
because of this backdrop of suffering
that is voided out too
by the most inherent ignorance
known by almost any name
whether it is "television" or "family values"
and me
I would take a hopeless black ember
even if it were fuming
and try to wonder in frail spirit
what night creature created hatred and gore and murder and rape
wondering really how people can believe in the judgments of a benevolent God
when the belligerence of Earth is often testament to something worse than a Satan,
but you, whoever you are
you know me only as Stan the writer
not the kid who almost gotten stabbed on a 4th of July that happened in the dead of winter
or how they all wanted to be my wife until they found out I was mad instead of cursed
but that is a different story entirely
I would would rather stick with beauty
and forget the names and faces until a white river appears again
where we can smile weakly and pass out flowers to the poor ones who got hurt again and too much even then,
even then.
the night, she is black
and our charcoal masks contrast with our pure tears
in these moors that beckoned with ebony silhouettes
until we learn one day
that somebody at least thought we were so good and kind
that they felt our words were made up.
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