A Wish

What if I could offer you absolute freedom?
What if you wouldn't be judged for your inner most thoughts?
Would you tell me something you've never told me before?
Would you allow yourself the journey of a forbidden thought?


In days past I've thought your eyes were trying to tell me something,
I've thought about a hundred different statements your might want to declare,
The best ones are to do with me.


If at any moment you could be in touch with your most honest heart
Would I see you spread your arms and transcend yourself?


Sitting on a chair, head in hands
Smiling a familiar smile, looking into a brick wall, a mirror.


A millions hearts all following their own desires causing chaos far and wide,
Out of this chaos might we extract some order?
I hear the chirp of quiet satisfaction
I hear the roar of final deliverance.


Claim freedom from the society which defines you,
Freedom for yourself excluding all others.
Can you be specific with your own philosophy?
Can you offer yourself the freedom to change the book you read from?


Your eyes are beautiful, let them run deep.

Note

Flat to flat.
Door to door.
Thoroughfare through thoroughfare.
We travel the padded satin and the beautiful retched cliffs.
I will travel far, I will escape the well trodden road.
This cape of knowledge that I cherish will hide me from purveyors of evil.
I have faith.
Faith in the eyes of another,
Your eyes reflect my face and I know now your eyes are the same as mine.
For you cannot know more than the wind,
Or feel deeper than the sea.
In our shared ignorance of the inspiration for nature
And our awe of the vast expanse
We will find enrichment.
We will find ourselves.
We will find each other.
We will find the ability to feel and share joy.

To Work

Tartan blankets filling my gaze
misshapen pillows from last nights dreams
nature defeating the will.
soon to scramble for the shower again
hair can wait another day
same jeans as yesterday again.
and on the train to work
To work when I could be studying the world map and figuring out which airport to fly to
when i could be poaching eggs and layering on the salmon
when i could be learning from Rimbaud how to unleash youth with decisive power
when i could be searching myself and my work with intentions of distillation
when i could be lying in the snow to find out how long one can stand numbness
when i could be watching pictures, seeing fragments merge into momentary perfection for the senses
when i could be staring into their faces
when i could be getting myself into dirty trouble
when i could be against a wall sniffing at regret
when i could be eating hungrily at the flesh of consolation
when i could be driving my forehead into the air with the idea that at speed i might surprise natural motion and knock myself out with approving joy
when i could be under water kicking for life and for affirmation
when i could be sitting with my head in a lap making a memory into god
when i could be winning at the most unlikely game of cards
when i could be cursing those who have wronged me with absolute conviction
when i could be philosophizing with a stranger in a dark corner with wine stained lips and hips
when i could be running across the Ponte Vecchio, through the Uffizi with arms out stretched
when i could be exuding an idea of style with intention to unnerve
when i could be telling my favorite joke to group that fail to see the laugh
when i could be hurting so much i am reminded of my physicality in the world
when i could be thrashing and kissing and smoking
when i could be failing
when i could be sitting at a wooden bar in the south of ireland sitting next to an estranged uncle who assuredly speaks english
when i could be listening to the rain diffusing on the window
when i could be

A Prayer

I was standing on the rocks. 
Away from the shore and the lapping tide.
Away from the foaming waves, the torrential dance.
Away from the pebbles, the shells,
Away from the collected crap of aluminum cans and worn but still branded plastic packets.
I was standing by the rocks, high above the sea.
Under the same sky that contorted before my eyes,
Under the sky that stretched out before me and was pink at the end.
Under the sky that had seen infinite mornings but always with a new face.
Under the sky, the most beautiful arc of colour and deliberate undertaking.
I remained there among the rocks attempting to pin point the horizon
The space was vast and foreboding and the world dark around the edges.
Out of the dark came a great man.
His body engaged, his mind resolute.
His muscled arms hauled a huge red iron pillar, at least twenty or thirty meters in length.
On its side, as it made its laborious journey, the pillar seemed to split the sky from the sea,
The sky now was penetrable, I watched as the source of my anxiety was reframed,
Was mocked or hailed?
Was challenged or paid homage?
Was courted or ignored?
The sun creeping through gaps in the clouds, reflecting off the pillar making it into a beacon
A manmade beacon juxtaposed with all of natures beauty and omnipotence.
When the man arrived at the center of the scene he stopped
He noticed the varying colours of blue and grey and green in the water
He noticed the plastic packets floating in the foam
He noticed the houses in the distance which were sprinkled along the shore
He noticed the shells and pebbles at his feet
He noticed me now sitting on the rocks behind him
He noticed the sound of the breeze as it hurried through his hair, his fingers
He noticed the slowing of his heart after his exertions
He noticed his mind nagging him to complete his task.
And the man once again picked up the vast pillar, this time holding it vertically.
He raised it high above his head.
My heart raced, would the man dishonor this scene?
With one mighty movement he drove the pillar deep into the ground
It would never move again.
He stood back and took in the pillar in the landscape, standing alone for the first time.
He was satisfied with his prayer for humanity.
He moved off with strength and nobility, leaving the scene the way he had entered it.
Again I was alone and I found that I was no longer by the rocks
I was walking, running down toward the sea, toward the pillar.
I arrived at the pillar, standing at the base and looked up
I saw the sky and it seemed closer to me now.
I sat on the ground and leant against the pillar and looked out,
I saw the sea and it seemed closer to me now.
I stood with my back against the pillar and I stretched out my arms
I felt the air supporting me,
I felt the sand beneath me supporting me
I felt the sound of the sea supporting me
I felt the movement of the clouds supporting me.
I stood on the beach and I felt complimented by the stature and integrity of the elements.
I felt my soul reflect the sea and the sky.
I felt I too could be vast.
I felt I too could be beautiful.
I left I too could be powerful.
I felt I too could be content.
I felt I too could be empowered by the cycle of life.

Rise Up

He must be trapped, strapped to his bed
I know he's dyin' to be dancin',
He is the same Empress we all once knew
Movin' into the beat by osmosis.
Tasty cheek tappin' on my table,
Everything is on the line now
Done it did it do it.

tomorrow

mum goes back to work tomorrow.

seems like she is always going back to work.

the washing machine is singing at me, still don't know how to turn it off though.

The snow outside is shoveled away again, it's marvelous.

The driveway is clear.

I wonder what she will teach her class tomorrow,

How to tell time or to eat with a fork.

The rudimentary has become very alluring of late,

alluring like sexy, sexy to be intwined in your on mission of discovery,

of self, only to find that black is much the same is white.

Which lips for me?

Yours? Maybe. Or not, you get a say of course, and I wouldn't accuse you of malignancy

because today mum is teaching geography, biology the morra.

history does make for more tender roots - in our own history, which perhaps we fabricate according to our needs.

History is written by the victors, and by those with an unknowledgeable audience.

New York

I dream of New York

I dream of the smell along sixth street, little india

The sharp bite of winter at your cheeks, slowly crushing your fingers,

Your hand still buried deep in her grasp.

Walking in chelsea extending your eyes and imagination into the hotel on 23rd street.

Sitting in a restaurant on king street, willing my beautiful Patti to venture out of her home.

Fur coats in soho, rushing clothes rails and flashing cameras, beautiful elegant girls

Sitting on a bar stool sipping red wine, or coffee, or erbal tea

Smooth legs to their armpits.

The smell of time square and the rush from the subway to the theater,

Leaving the theater hopefully hopeful and not disappointed. 

Eating 24 cent noodles, two packets for dinner, and another because they taste good.

Decorating another crummy apartment, feeling joyful.

All those inspired people that changed the world.

Huge piles of fruit at whole foods and fish and mountains of cheese, in individual plastic tubs.

The angelica cinema, weeping alone at another film, breathing deeply walking back to the apartment, glad to look up.

I dream of hours in Barnes and Noble, buying another poetry book when all those others on the red bookshelf at home remain unfinished.

The magnolia bakery, and sitting at a chess table eating a cupcake in the shade.

Uptown! Above 14th street, like a day trip to another city taken only once every two months.

Corn and batted eyelashes from those girls all dripping with personality. And the man in the top hat across the street, painting another daft pop art monstrosity. 

I dream of that wonderful solitude that only a city like new york can offer, alone in the park, part of a community of peace and silence for as long as you choose.

My love, with dinner on the table and surprises in the wings.

Treats on west broadway, getting lost in china town.

Burgers in corner bistro, beers thrown down the bar.

Dollar oysters in the lower east side and Decent wine in my favourite restaurant in the world.

Meeting strangers of fame and monopolizing a Karaoke booth!

Spending money which you dont have on booze or fancy dinner or another item of clothing.

Magic hour, following in the footsteps of my hero.

Truly living a dream.

I love to love New York.

Lets Be Friends

Green ants in formation, charming everyone of them,
They're tickling each other and laughing at the oddities
That the sunshine casts on the trees and the earth
And the beaks of the birds who are whistling over head.
Long ago the birds and the ants reconciled their differences
And the murder stopped as quickly as the wind sweeps up the leaves.
The nest was a great cave inside a tree trunk
With infinite tunnels going in all directions, even up.
In the middle at there was an alter on which sat
An exhaustive library of recipe books with countless
Recipes for twig broth and earthworm goulash.
Delish! Occasionally a blue bird'll force its way in,
Thrashing about and disturb the order of the books,
But inevitably he'll calm down and exit apologetically.
These things cant be helped.


Inside your smile are a hundred future memories we are yet to make.

Between the Words

Dear Stranger,

        I've been sitting in the library a lot recently. The old wooden tables, the marble floors and big brass door knobs fill me with a sense of nostalgia, for someone else's past. They encourage ideas to float down out of the huge domed roof and settle on my shoulders, they conjure fake memories, as if I were a person who had sat in those chairs with a distinct purpose, scribbling away compulsively, consuming the content of the most specific books in the most detailed minutia. I remember the smirk creeping into my face at finding out new, surprising, guiding facts and the square shape of my index finger from writing for so long. Those are most definitely fake memories. I have no paper to finish, no project to research, but I do seek something, the same thing all the great writers sought, who's works fill the shelves around me in this majestic room. I seek an answer to this mortal condition, this need to stimulate my mind. It does fill me with a slight sense of contentment to know that I am surrounded by the thoughts and discoveries of so many of our greatest minds, to know that although I do not possess an answer, there is one very close to me, in a book perhaps only ten feet away, perhaps within grasping distance, it's just up to me to pick up the right book. Sometimes it's enough to sit in the middle of the room and breathe deeply in the knowledge that the air circulating in this room has brushed up against so many works of genius and enlightenment.

          I met a beautiful girl recently, she has a voice of experience. She really stares at me when I speak to her much in the same way that I stare at people, thinking perhaps that an unplanned and fleeting expression might give away more of someone's truth that they intended or more truth than they know they possess. I imagined myself with this girl, how might she change me?  Might she elevate my soul like the songs of Patti Smith? Might she haunt me they way that Dostoevsky haunts me, changing the shape and colour of the corridors of my life? Might she put me at ease and sooth me like Walt Whitman? Or might she confound me like T.S. Eliot? I imagined my hand on the back of her neck and my lips at her ear. Her piercing look disarmed me and therein lies my attraction; with just her eyes she negated the need for small talk and I believe that is some sort of answer, to be disarmed is to tell the truth.

          Perhaps I could be better served by finding this girl in books? I could have the language of experience but none of the pain. But no, I shouldn't like to cheat and I find suffering becomes me, it dusts away the ambiguities of my life and forces me on a new path. Besides there are discoveries to be made in the closeness of flesh that can only be comprehended by the individual and never fully put into words.

        

                      As Ever,

                         Stranger

A Few Steps Away

You are FUCKING CRAZY

With your acid temper and that unpredictable

Grounding fist. I peel away the layers of

Unconsidered retorts from your blackened lips

Still no Answer. nudged the table so

Fast I spilled my tea and ruined my book,

Your eyes flared and I knew you wanted to scream and

Erupt with confusion and longing.

Your face feels so aged beneath my palm

Your eyelids stretch open and you tense up

and down until you have to stand and leave the room.

The leaves outside in the wind hold your gaze

For as long as you can see them

And again you grind your teeth.

The Bastards! They have you again, locked into a battle

with your wits your memory your knowledge your fear and your hope.

Ocean rides before you and you wade in and 

Stamp your feet into the sand, wish it were concrete,

Water awakens taste in your mouth, repulsion, emersion fills your finger tips,

unholy thoughts. Compulsion to join the great force of the waves

As they batter angrily for all eternity into the rock face,

Chipping away - murderer of the lands.

I see the sea air brush your ankles as you emerge haphazardly from the tide

No element seems to envelop you wholly.

You take my hand. You hold me close and I feel loss and foreboding.

That time exists, that the next moment is a gift seems forgotten.

Later you make me laugh most indulgently,

You inspire passion in one sitting close and one standing far away,

Your body moves majestically whimsically through the pub and

I can't keep from staring at you, like you might disappear at any minute and

I wonder is that your intention or your condition or is it just me cause I've been

drinking too much. Face that I want to sleep against.

I watch you grab at the flesh of another, caressing and biting at ears and lips

And neck, dark sodden breath in the air. I hear your lament echoing.

When there is a power cut later at home, the four of us get up, and rush around

Pretty much just from the excitement of lighting candles

And the thought of blackout sex and adventure. You stay quite still.

Unexpected dark quite plainly assailing your evening, evenings.

Table lamp flickers on suddenly and a grey air dispels from around your eyes

You hold my gaze and I know I'll always see you teeter on the verge of something

Other than me. Torsos rub together and you'll be close for as long as I can hold you.

And when after comes my imagination will brake down in time with me.