“Death of an Artist”

Granite is an easy stone to carve,

Compared to stone heartsbeating in unison to a time/clock.

We become our dread when we have no goal.

Children carry a name, but they carry not our dreams.

We remember Michelangelo, yet

We have no idea of his heirs or lack thereof.

Whether he had many or any children is as moot as

The depth of conscience of a lawyer in heaven or hell.

To create art-that is the lifeblood of an artist.

To create life is consequential, like scones with tea.

An inspired quilt or laundry line is the result of an artisan.

A bevy of babies in hospital newborn ward is merely a result.

My art is here. Naked on paper, unarmed with quaff or sword.

When I die, my child will cry, my friends will be troubled, and

Community may pause in a brief moment of sadness.

But my art will live on, unencumbered by grief, guilt, expectations.

Shakespeare, Shelly, Bryon, Poe, Thomas, Yeats, Faulkner, Salinger…

What of their children do we consider before we challenge the abyss?

NOTHING…the nothingness of the end of space, time-shadowless light.

We remember their art, their ageless artspawn, as we go not gently…

Into that good night.

"Carmine Red Metallic"

Journey
In a Monte Carlo.
Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin'
A doomed yet historic love.

Wet passenger side seat.
Throes of passion meet.
Burnt orange Texas Tennessee blend.
Rock the house down BLM.

Killeen Texas gal,
20 years ahead of the Tennessee.
I miss you every day,
I miss you and I miss your sting.

Riding together in a Monte Carlo,
Heading to your home,
Mother's inspection of shirt tuck.
Brenda's ire of you, lovestruck.

Do you ever talk to Felicia?
Of base dances, the gender men?
Do her letters still peregrinate
Edifices longing for satisfaction?

Our song was ‘Hot Blooded'
Yet Steve Perry intervened;
Event horizon the Rape of the Lock.
All things lost, all in between, and all of us.

I love you Beverly,
I lost you and love you still.
The dust of dreams cast bitter wayfarers
In this land of Nod, yet I abide alone, anon.

"A Soldier Leaves Madrid"

Horizon mountains
Kneel reverently
As the old warrior
Gazes afar.

Behind lay battles,
Friends,foes and her-
Esmeralda of the plains.
Keeper of wayward hearts.

Ahead lay the Nazis,
Authors of the Perfect Plan.
Efficient disposers, impure purifiers.
Hollow men with hollow hearts.

The old warrior inspects his men.
Saplings cut across the USA.
First grade writing class now,
Pencils dragged with heavy hearts.

Sea foam pierces nostrils
As pings and plunks
Of bullets assault steel and flesh-
Dead men fighting with ripped hearts.

"Normandy! Normandy! Normandy!"
Cry the surf waders, slogging
Slow-motion, hating their killbox,
Loving their country with all their hearts.

…

Marie du Mer cleans the fish
Her Papa brings home for supper.
The biggest one is old and scarred.
His belly carries a locket, a heart.

"The Tree Where Doves Go to Cry"

Roads we travelled,
Roads remembered.
Time we cheated
Roving away the days.

No King's Road
Or high court,
Yet plenty of needed-
Scenic routes abounded.

Maps of our journey
Resemble our own
Veins & arteries-
Spirit housed topography.

One day each year
You live again
Through each landmark,
Dear Mother, my obelisk.

-for the girl that liked to shoot marbles…

"Sixty-Two Drowned Vikings"

Two ships sailed west to Sussex-
Invaders ready to spill English blood.
Shades of color glinted off
The razored blades of well-used swords
Axes and maces bound in fierce leathers.

Sixty-two wives bathe in the shallows of
Tanagra Kin, singing the battle-song rent
Like linens from the halls of Valhalla with defiance.
These accidental widows invoke their Gods
Odin, Thor, Freya with the certainty of nuclear strategists.

Seven leagues off the English coast
Spouts a squall from the God called I Am.
Viking armor and amour both descend
With equal speed in the murky North Sea depths.
No horn blown triumph of fields reeking English blood.

Sixty-two she-cuckolds receive the King's permission
To serve as shield maidens anew in hurried raids
(Avenge disastrous lost sons of Odin.)
Women singing the secret blood song as
English Bards and Knights fall in heaps before them.

Sixty-two warrior women return to their homeland-
English hands, feet and heads they bury in
Plantings, shriven with prayers to their Gods
For forgiveness, glory, and honor-
Remembering men now turned to garden sausage.

"Cemetery Lights"

2314,
Cellar knocker on my door.
Lost at sea or lost at shore?
No one knows who went before…

You going home tonight Julee?
Ready to cruise fell backroads
Of love, hate, regret and rebate?
Help me couch our twilight load?

I arrive, the we that is me.
Can you hear Lil Wayne do Milli?
Feel Kevin Rudolph on 105.3?
I play the play you wrote, silly!

Floating stiletto follows me,
Seven days since the captivity.
The pointed prick demands your blood-
It flows alone, muted crimson flood.

Your phone vibrates, why its Josh-
Calling you in the keepsake box!
Pity the fools that let you slip away
They plant pretty lights on your grave today.

A nice mix, 373
Cemetery lights adorn your plot.
Your burnished tinny land-bound yacht
Silently sailing this harbor of the dead.

Cemetery lights glow ghostly shapes,
Hummingbirds, butterflies, dragon drakes,
I placed one there among the throng;
Dolphin/dagger, blue like your thong.

"This Mortal Coil of Struggle"

Credit to The Bard for use of Mortal Coil phraseology~

My cat doesn't ponder
It's next meal while devouring
The supper I give it, or which he
Pounces upon, unawares.

The birds of Spring don't
Worry about staying warm the
Next Winter, or how to stay
Dry during coming days of rain.

Even the cursed snakes do not
Appear to be overly concerned
Whether today my heal may grind
The life out of there scaly bellies.

Them comes man, the lord of illusion,
Soul-blessed, and saved from perdition-
Scarcely does his eye blink unburdened
With questions of the future & the past.

-Clown chorus-
We shall be happy tomorrow,
We shall be happy then,
We forgot how to be happy,
And shall never be again.

Meanwhile the cat sleeps,
The bird nests snugly,
The snake does whatever contented snakes do-
While we rue, and rue, and rue.

"The Death of Uncas"

---"But once, we were here." Chingachgook, The last of the Mohicans.

Earth-
Slipping through the forest thickets
Spryly; a springing leopard on the veldt.
Uncas! Unfettered by guilt, debt, or regret,
Seeks his love, his destiny, his own Munro.

Water-
Ancestor Spirit flows in his veins,
The son of the father, a soul without chains.
Uncas! Friend to all that would be free,
Companion to Hawkeye, la long carabine.

Fire-
Duelling with Magua, whose hate burns
Beyond extinction. Felled by a fell blade…
Uncas! Beloved child, friend, and future groom,
Banished from earth to his heavenly tomb.

Air-
Taller than the treetops, swifter than the raven,
Nature spirits mourn the long death plummet of
Uncas! Brave-man, lover of life and the sister
Munro, following her wherever she may go

Above, Below. Love is the artificial horizon.

"The Robot Rapture"

New Old Japan

Started the postmodern love fray-

“Why can’t robot and man

Be married today?”

‘There is no need of divorce,

When your partners possess

On/off switches on the back

Of their neck,”-they profess.

Now the fad has gone amuck.

Robot bill of rights, baptism,

Discount disco night-no end in

Sight for this mechanical schism.

Factions groups demand a stop

To rampant robot intermarriage.

ChromeHead-One chronicled that

“Sorrow powers empty baby carriage.”

(To the credit of society, we didn’t

Enslave the robots with Church edict sing.

Nor did we drive them from their native land.

Mandated kill switches made us king.)

It surprised us all, well not the Jews,

That day the robot souls drifted like fog

To their own gearhead Paradise, leaving

Man to once again clean up after his dog.

"The Lost Song"

Why did you die, McV?

Leaving such a good song
To remain unsung, everlong?
A shame for you, a shame for me.

Sometimes the wind courts

Your lost song’s beat.
Tree limbs tapping feet-
House draft vocals of sorts.

Colorado would’ve loved you.

Unlike your cold Ocoee shroud.
(Artists funeral ne’er draw a crowd.
Less their riches cause great rue.)

Good Friend McV, visit me again.

Sing your song, “The Utopian”
I can’t sing it for me, or any man.
Dance your melody-for my soul’s wan.

"The Fortean Valentine Incident"

Met I the spirit in a waking dream
Which lasted several lifetimes.
The days afterwards were hollow,
Filled with prits and prots and jots.

Loved I the spirit in a mash up of eras
Darker some than others, like licorice.
Gold rained and water shimmered
Beneath this spirit and the acolyte I.

Lost, I lost this spirit, fallow hope spasm.
Emerging from the ether world back
To dry blood-stained parking lot of
Nondescript convenience store odors.

Heart tattoos vending machine playing
Journey & 2Chainz, wedded alternately.

Night people, drawn by red smells,
Consider me, then snarl and laugh.

Can I Dream the spirit dream again before
I fade into a dim lit waiting room's tapestry?

"Meet Me at the Moontower"

Darlin' Phaedra,

Our trail homeward has begun.
We'll be punchin' hoofs in
Texas again ‘fore autumn winds
Start blowin' o'er the prairie.

By your birthday night I promise
To breathe Austin air, clean and combed.
Be at our grove by the little river,
Cleanse my dusty heart by your wondrous sight.

Till then, I'll just sing more to myself,
And ‘ole Stamper, while watchin' this
Trail unwind like your golden tresses,
Shimmerin' in the moonlight.

Yours Truly,
William