Friday, November 30, 2012

Big Eyes

Not big alone. Not by a longshot.
Limitless depth that I would stare
down for an epoch, unto infinity.
Wrap me in yeux until there's no me.

You probably thought me crazy
the time I recorded you, silent,
with some haunting, melodic hum
in the the background and blazing
white sunlight pouring from the
cracked drapes behind, limning
an angel apropos. You smirked devilishly.

There won't be words written against
you. I couldn't. I can not.
Requiems and eulogies alone suffice.
But they offer no solace.
I'm bitter, worn, tired.

Eyes in which I might have incubated,
been reborn--eyes big and deep
enough for such things--are not
looking at me with hunger, ready
to swallow my entirety.

I can't even delete phone pics,
toss out clothes you left,
and I stare at the same bloody
wall with discontinuous pain.
What good are substitutes?
How could Her eyes ever deign
to see what your orbs keenly reveal?

This is no pity party before dawn
and after dusk, when I should be
parlaying with the relentless
cousin of Death:

It's a celebration that you even looked.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

To Helen Cameron, October 2012

Dancing, vociferating,
demagoguing, boasting,
hosting, toasting,
oscillating wildly,
leading, following,
fighting, showing,
proving, domineering,
warring, quitting,
are not my nature.

Rather...

I've not a stitch to wear
as I stare madly into
irises of palling teal.

Praising what I see,
feeling where others fail,
fantasizing over
us comingling--
a sweaty, passionate,
versicolor coitus;
making that fecund
gaze and those obscene
pink lips more than
passing niceties, instead
reserved for some late,
intense evening when
I recall the things I
actually do so well.

And then, perhaps,
my nature blooms from
latent potential.