Monday, September 7, 2009

the promise. (bishop and the night.)

promise me.

i want you to promise me,

no matter what happens,

that you will never look back,

never regret it,

never think this, any of it,

was a mistake.

promise me.

promise that years from now

i'll see you in a coffee shop,

and you'll remember this,

all of it.

promise me.

promise you'll come back here,

lazarus, return in the rain

and tell us why you

ever left in the first place.

promise me.

promise, swear upon this lampost

that these will not be

that last words you write

in uneven hand on the

wall of my room.

i promise.

the end of the summer. (bishop in the light.)

the fountain's come back on.

i went there tonight, really,

i've only just returned,

and there was some

distant woman's perfume

haunting the air, tempting

me down to the water's edge,

and laying me to sleep upon

the rocks.

our shadows grow and shrink,

caught in the light of passing cars.

i grasp your hand.


i can see her even now,

view it from somewhere

behind my eyes, or maybe

i just feel it.

it's the girl from the school,

who goes for coffee and

gets tea, swaying slowly,

gracefully, alone on the

floor, and i can't remember

if this was a dream or not.

this is the inspired kind of

beauty that looks effortless,

inborn, flawless, floating,

the very picture of elegance.

the girl who spends years

to write just one perfect song,

the kind of song that seems

effortless, flawless, like beauty

just happens, mirroring truth.

the girl i see smoking in the dark,

the cold wind coming over from

the water, her face lit by a single

candle, her eyes catching the light,

and her tears falling, to create

the stars.

mid-december twilight. (dreams of the sleepless)

draw me something,

a picture, a postcard from

where your dreams sleep.

pull your hand across your throat,

and beg the question, and

fold your hands, as if in prayer.

the clouds roll across the skies,

this is mid-december twilight,

and we've bolted all the doors.

eyes, a study in light and shadow,

the color of my coffee that morning,

a glass raised to lips that will not speak.

cut your hair and try to change,

your face is framed, they've

trapped us in our sitting rooms.

the library at night, tea stained

newspapers and dimmed lights, and

the sound of poetry in the next room.

draw me something,

a picture, a postcard from

where your dreams sleep.


i went back to all the places

we'd been. i think i was only

hoping that this would bring

me closure if not clarity,

reality if not reason,

and an end if not an epilogue

to this tragedy.

you weren't there, of course,

but i felt as if you were just

moments before, like you

might've just left, your

cologne still on the air,

your laugh still echoing

about the empty room.

like we're all of us going

to keep going back after

one another, thinking

we're the only ones.

nothing would suprise me anymore.

the palace of martyrs.

he could be praying,

his head bowed to rest

upon the notebook on

the desk, his arms spread,

crucified, to hang

off the edges, his black

jacket with the sleeves

pulled down, his thumbs

through holes to keep them

over his wrists.

the sounds you hear,

maybe he's singing or

simply speaking softly

to the people who

aren't there.

perhaps it's some hymn.

he could be crying.

this is the palace of martyrs,

a room to see them burning,

the pain reflected in their eyes,

all of them singing some shared

sorrow, of crosses to bear and

secrets that you only learn

through this slow suicide.

she will not come for him.

this is what it's like to watch someone die.

flutter. (bishop's swan song.)

i trust my feet to take

me where i need to go.

i ended up at a ruin, tonight,

under a star strewn sky,

clouds the color of roses

falling across her face, hiding

the moon.

i lay down upon the drive,

and rest my eyes, remembering

my own stars.

fire dancing, like we did,

in front of the grand window,

to our own music, alone where

the whole world could see.

now, weeds grow up in front

of that same window, and

it is too dark for me to see in.

here, i am transparent, a

fluttering thing caught outside

it's own time, as unreal as

the mists the fountain casts,

the words fading from the

wall of a room where

no one will sleep again.

i cannot see, but i can imagine

the rooms, the carpets now

more stained, things abandoned

and overturned in your haste

to escape, myself included.

i rise from the drive,

the clouds now darker than

i remember, the lamps shining

but not cuttng through the

veil of the night, and

i trust my feet to take

me where i need to go.