When Darkness Comes (Daylight): Poem 3


Daylight friezes trim heights,

Stony edifices still standing

Ancient decaying battles,

Fading listless gray above

Technicolor tile mosaics.
 

When darkness comes daylight
 

Photoshopped to his taste,

Scrumptiously thin-thin waifs

Adorn full fashion billboards,

Eye-catching corners round

Apartment ledge jumpers.
 

When darkness comes daylight
 

Poised for the leap, these

Downers decorate the city

Like gargoyle guardians,

Villains to pop protagonists

Puffing smokey smile rings.
 

When darkness comes daylight
 

When sirens slice vulnerable

Sleep like death opened out,

Who can hear the whispers,

Tunneled mice scampering,

Twisting babies suffocating?
 

When darkness comes daylight
 

In frozen wincing skies hidden

Behind baby blue blinds drawn

The day’s delusional dreaming,

But when the darkness comes 

Noble neon lights us illuminate:
 

When darkness seizes day’s night

Waiting

Waiting (2)

 

Waiting again…

for an unconfirmed

chance meeting

held in suspense

undecided date set

to a generalized affair

of you know where I am

and if you need me…

But seeking, anticipating

lurking in the corners,

that hint of arriving–something,

in jittery undertones under-girding

a calm overlay, THE commonality.

To observe the boulevard,

its passing cars unceasing,

flowing like cyclic

bleeding, you count on it,

sense its certain appearance

but never quite prepared,

somewhat surprised, even;

a small part of you disbelieves,

astonished and affronted with stark

reality inscribed in the expected–

just as traffic normatizes forced

obedience, swallowed tolerance and

immunity to poisonous decay,

and comforts the daily usual.

So, what itches beneath the skin?

What stutters contentment?

A species more conditioned to

seek, prize and await the

extraordinary, less populated

than the quotidian dose of

hundred fold–or more–

increments amassed regularly.

So I wait for no one, nowhere,

midst the humming coffee house

quiet nothingness, gaze-glowering

at passersby, plimsole-pedal drones,

all the while sniffing unseen seams,

loosely sewn quilted square panels

that curtain the wizard’s productions–

plotting potential improbability.

It was just a dream…

  

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Softly now a wind swept plain threads the dusty sky
in tapestry’d landscapes open wide in an endless eye,
for who comes a’spin trailing cyclonic tear stained anger?
A dream, it was, a dream and only a dream.
The bone rumblings nauseate my awakening.
Fist pummeled popping despair explodes in fracture;
my joy is hiding, darkened in a webby cervical corner.


I awoke to the morning’s whistling words; 
my feet were cold, fallen free of blanketed body heat. 
Spring came early, opened prematurely, and so left; now
the returning cold deceives, rankles a ramshackle house, 
its half way adults of changing complexion, doors open wide.
They pass and return like the shoreline soaked sand,
intermittent, persistent and constant synchronous rhyme.


The words of my awakening were mere warnings.
Almost over, I squeeze between staying and going
come and gone, keeping me presently here, now by the by
jammed in by the leaves that fill my window’s blind view.
The green bleeds through me and approves noddingly,
quivering its reply in jittered tenuously ticklish goading:
Come out to the world, connect and extract its comfort.


I am a lonely laughing over it runner.
My feet, bare, exposed, never but lightly touch the pavement,
their steps imperceptibly driven past the crowds’ avoidance,
padding by in silent wide eyed stare, solemn mouthed,
a hasty reproof in the reading for the uninitiated.
I told him I never once felt enough a part of this world,
not enough out of it either and I meant it then as now.


Running steamed skin trails scents of the night’s visions.
Those words–never…enough…–circulate behind my shades,
blinking the sweat from the lids into the skin crease burn,
not remembering if I said them, actually uttered the words.
We were just talking or texting, smoke in the sage room,
grainy air or fog or hail, obscuring our voices in gassy ice.
There I told him, I never once…never…felt…, it was a dream.