Ophelias

These waters I witness are but a rippling mirror of your eyes,
and I sit on this shoreline musing o’er its purest form:

Indeed, every gull that swims here is blinded by the vision,
for they’ve found the next closest thing to those blues of morning,
greens of evening, and browns of nightfall’s glow.
(and I know at least one will find its way home,
whether through the traveler’s pain or the slumber’s loan) –

Their migration is like my memory of you — never
finished — almost instinctive, and true like the beauty
of these waters that shy away from my wonder.

I know you feel the mallards tickling your eye-lids –
whether through the wind, rain, or dewy day.
There are hundreds here — and I hope
a pleasant vision takes you into the
Apollonian storm, for the waves here
move through the tune of your soul, and
not through this song of those many forgotten days.

“Ignorant of its own emptiness” (Draft)

The
clouds are chariots of mist,
gently parading past the
twisting turnstile of time,
surrounding the sacred valleys
on 5th street where paladins
observe omnipotent mimes
pulling atmospheres out of
the wellsprings of some lucid
abyss.

I wandered
this valley like tumbleweed,
shaking hands with Fitzgerald’s many gin bottles,
and serenading Keats with a nightingale’s scream
that resembled Wilde’s echoing, Ireland wit;
unsure of my cause, but willing to travel,
for I saw my wanderlust queen on top the moon’s saddle,
and I knew she approved of this Plutonian dream,
for women bow down to
interim grit.

Huck Finn was there too;
wearing Dylan Ray-Bands
and all-black attire, painting
America on compost mounds
that glued themselves to Taliban spires,
bruising shadows of redwhiteblues
on top this graveyard’s combustible pyre
that reeked of embers green and counterfeit.

Bush mows the sand there, I confess,
and Moses, in rags, fears the afar,
so he climbs the valley’s hills to peak at the stars,
but sees only drones that twinkle, like death,
o’er the valley’s never changing wave of prophets
and the alley’s ever changing rose of bards.

I stared for a moment,
then was plucked by the moon,
and the wind melted me back
into Shakespeare’s last swoon,
that sat in a jar on top the
114th president’s nightstand
where his heroin longed for
his destitute wounds.

“Where the hell did I go?” I wondered,
striking a match to illuminate this bard’s snow-globe.
The light ricocheted throughout the sphere
and blinded each actor who unwittingly crooned:
“Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.”

I met Ophelia here, a junkie now with uranium laughter –
hair like ice, dreams like fire, and hopes like pot-holes
sinking deeper into sulfuric snows.
She sang me a song of ever after,
and Scottie Joplin played a typewriter there –
It stuttered syllables, scribbles — iambic, didactic,
and possessed my ears with its smooth strung out tones,
like a spliff’s misty dance in your ballroom of air,
or my Eckleburg eyes with their subtle green glow.

Forlorn was the feeling, a sort of remnant of her heart,
and I felt required to appease this purgatory with my own
understandings of pain and dearth and prize-less art,
so I read her Hamlet, over and over, till she found her soul.

A light year passed, the globe’s glass dissolved into sand.
I crawled out of the dust with my hungover hands,
and walked amongst rubble of a post-Orwellian world
that was hardly digital, and built on divided gold.

I stood and gazed upon this realm,
eyes starving for earth, or her lush curly hair,
then I peeked at the moon, that astronomical bell,
and saw her weeping there, waiting, as
I maniacally swooned back into the
lucid abyss beneath the chariots of mist
where humans breed hell.

As She Peers Into Your Mind (Part 1)

Her faint voice extends its withering palms into the heart of the skeletal wilderness, peering into the legends painted upon the segregated leaves, questioning its tangled separation with a dusty mutter: “This tree is twisted in a chaos that cannot be bent about with whispering ease.” She peeked into the sinking skin of the blooming chaos, and what she saw was a world where figures, dim, swirled about in an eternal dance that spoke of yesterday’s morrows and the rewinding brain’s uttering whim. There, quotations upon a hallway wall sang in harmonies of our freest clutters and our addictive wrongs—and duality screamed as her voice began to hum this mysterious song. The unclear colors of this world fell into the scream, and, possessed by some cosmic dream, she whispered the colors of her world into the erupting nothingness. — Nothingness: something that can be observed universally, but is always misrepresented. – This world, in nothingness, was unknowingly reinvented, and she fell, like Newton’s apple, into the palms of this world. Her discernment stood before the mirror of her mind; stemming dreams were inhabited by the colors of her own understanding, and the angles of her own understandings determined this world’s natural lines. She walked along this world, pining for nothing, and living with spent intention, content with herself and the wind’s running rhymes – existed indefinitely within the wilderness of her internal planning and assumed immortal signs. Producing what she knew, draining what she thought, and animating perception till her brain softly rotted with her creations – much like the world our ancestors sought.

On a Blue Balloon Floating Through a Corn Field (Sonnet-esque)

A blue balloon skips through my stover garden,
where the spur of dreaming yields in its slumber;
and I ponder its blues with thoughts that harden
like the corn that sunk into this spilt lumber.
The morning’s skirt waved across the horizon
As the world danced within its resplendent grip,
And I, like toes, held its weight – like glass to gin,
Whereas the balloon went free, for skirts do rip.
Is this balloon a symbol of a free earth?
Are its blues a sky that comfort this garden?
Will I float with its truth and sink with its mirth,
–Or remain a stover without its pardon?

We are chained within the earth’s abusive toes
That dance the dance perfected by that blue glow.

reflections revisited (Sonnet)

Reflections leash my psyche – I obsess,
then flee in spiraled walks to see the dream:
an ego’s glass that can only oppress
the face that grows to fear the mirror’s scheme.
To see oneself within another mind
Is standard of a human’s oddity;
But when one’s eyes pursue what it can’t find,
The psyche seeks the physicality.
Astray describes my recent thought-dreams well,
and I, a man, have seen my ceaseless years
descend and walk along the ego’s Hell
that burns – like glass – within wicked mirrors.

I write my true reflection with my pens
To fragment imitation’s daunting lens.

Picture of a Broken Shore (Sheboygan)

US Bank — The tower displays a digital resonation of time and temperature; a red reminder of the coldness of our hearts and the time we refuse to take advantage of – it triumphs over 8th Street, stamping itself onto our wandering peripherals, obsessively gazing into the sodium free ocean below Lakeshore Drive, where I smoke marijuana at the edge of the world, beneath the crimson beacon, peering into some distant storm that luminously blinks within the darkness.

I rediscover the tranquility of the sand when it is most needed, and my youth is absorbed within my shadow that tumbles with the evening sun down the sprinting shoreline. It is a temporary freedom from the sprouting food chains, the erupting roads, the inebriated governance, the teens whose elders did not pass down the moral compass, the welfaring vagabonds from the bleeding metropolis’ of Milwaukee and Chicago, the homeless that walk like tumbleweed along their desolate pathways, the daily reel that maniacally stares through the transparent car window into the unconscious soul that drives along the leashed avenues, the smog that tangles our tomorrows in synthetic atmospheres, the elementary wall art scrawled upon the park walls, the obscenities and the obesity and the old beasts who dream of nothing, and the For Sale signs that have become an increasingly prevalent viewing – white flight, foreclosure, abandonment and fleeing.

Yet, the tranquility exists where the sand has wandered, and I imagine the water when it peers into my mind– the musings captured upon canvases in the halls of the John Michael Kohler Arts Center, the historic landmarks that intrepidly crouch between useless businesses, the cultural awareness of the Hmong and Hispanic population, the old man that holds his history close to his mind and his family close to his heart, the operas echoing from the black glass beneath the vertical glow of the Sheboygan Theatre, the young artist I see contemplating life behind a cup of coffee, the young rebel I see contemplating life behind a primitive cigarette, the young child I see contemplating life behind the hide ‘n seek tree, the young ghost I see contemplating life behind the 1923 tombstone, and the contemplations I see beneath the red reminder – the masters’ tower that bleeds endlessly into this drowning city. –

So, in this contemplation, I remind myself of the water, the sand, and the edge of the world – and feel its beauty as I swim along this American sidewalk, refusing to wander, refusing to bleed, and refusing to drown into the daily routine.

dark night sea parable. (Sonnet)

Leaves translucently anchored by the earth
beckon to infinity’s bending fleet,
where pious seas defy the cosmo’s birth,
and sails propel the day toward defeat, –
for heaven is cavemen realities:
you cannot swim without some warm embrace,
for fear’s the mind’s persuasive fallacy,
and love is but a word that halts at race.
The eldest trees were history’s paddles –
Where are they now? Amongst the city’s reef
where vain illusions ride darkling saddles? –
– I wouldn’t know — for wisdom’s not belief.
So the universe sails beyond our dreams
into worlds that have never heard of kings.