Cenotaph

This place marks

a superb spot,

where everyone expects

me to reside,

to germinate undisturbed,

dispassionate, deep.

They do not know

it is an empty tomb;

for I lie elsewhere,

with a dash of Viking,

linger ripe, sleep dark
in another's arms.

tk

R.A.D. adds beautiful life to my words...

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It

Sleep is innocent.

It runs, hides in the dark,

is easily frightened by radiators,

the drop of a digital clock.

I have access no longer

to the lull of manifold sheep.

Time zones are corrupted

with a single cunning sock.

Night spins uncountable hours

in a game of blindfold;

I hear your voice in my head,

misidentify your face on purpose,

wanting always to be it.

tk/December 2014

Deliciously soporific R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Outerbelt

Speedway soars

without pit or champion.

Glow of dashboard.

Echo of centrifugal force.

Cars never cross the finish line

bleached with tire marks.

White-knuckled steering wheels.

Endless narrow-eyed loop.

At night there is no grandstand. 

I am the only fan.  Awake.

Dizzy with silent exhaust.

Inhaled secrets.

Drivers envy the cool

underside of my pillow.

I hide under the covers.
Dream headlong.

tk/November 2014


Charming read by R.A.D. Stainforth and Amy the cat...

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Insouciance

I leave the bed unmade―

toss the duvet to the floor,

leave it, rumpled and quiet,

along with my mother's hysteria.

The unholy mess coddles tomorrow

with pillow whispered yes.

I have slept with you for years―

pink menagerie of primitive art,

socks lost, one at a time,

in fanciful fruit-spilled sheets.

There is not my side or yours―

I stretch out in the center. 

tk/March 2014 

Lovely contemplative read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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*"My Bed" by Tracey Emin

Magi

Natives, Slavs, dark Irish, moan

for elsewhere, sigh like an accordion―

they hover with snake eyes,

offer melancholy and vodka.

Smoke rises from their pipes,

twists the many places before

with all the next stations―

part boxcar, part gypsy wagon.

They swaddle in babushka, braid bone

in my hair, rock me in peat and hay,

croon lullabies of painted roses.

I am colicky―sleep takes a long time.

I dream of conjurers, hypnotists

whispering  a distant star―

a scent of madness and resin candles,
the raven-smooth face of the Black Madonna. 

tk/March 2014



R.A.D. Stainforth melts my words like candle wax... 

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*The Sleeping Gypsy, 1897, by Henri Rousseau

Morning Star

Torso of Venus, 1920, bronze, Aristide Maillo
Columbus Museum of Art

Venus whispers through limbs in the ash;

charts the path of twinkle, twinkle, little.

Yet so much.

What are you like? 

Sleep becomes a nuisance.

I pace the ceiling, press warm footprints

to the windowpane, count the night

on her glow-in-the-dark rosary,

string it bead by bead across the sea.

Her morning eye watches from a headless torso,

holds me, transfixed.  

My goddess of love and war devotes herself

to the small hours,

offers me your kiss.

She is darling,

but not as dear as you.

tk/February 2014



Delicious mid-week read by R.A.D. Stainforth...