Dark Poetry Prose Poetry July 16, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

8:37am 07-16-04 friday

embroidered eyes look out from behind the walls of manufactured lives. memory makes them angels. and logic makes them demons. but there is no god nor any satan. only dulcimer dimensions of the mind.

i could not say. dare not ask.

iambic hearts yawn and rhyme against the rhythm of fluted lives. mocking still in untold stories. short on hope and long on why. tomorrow's bird has plenty wings, but cannot fly. gravity, it tugs from deep within. the hole it beckons with far off whispers from phantom friends.

i could never ask. dare not say.

no voice. no presense. and yet, in my mind a staircase creaks. tip-toed footsteps of burglars that come when they think i am asleep.

but if not heard. if not spoken.

still i know what it meant.

6:06pm friday 07-16-04

to whom is the sunlight given. for whom does darkness fall.

the patina of each life hides the subtle difference.

who? (to whom)

do i write to. listen. reply.

who? (to whom)

do i remember. forget. decide.

to whom do the days belong. to whom do the nights speak.

who?

myself?

i ?

me?

07-16-04 9pm friday

there's a solstice in your skin. and an equinox in your chest. still you wonder why the weather changes. still i look at that sky in my head and ask it if.

will the moon glow. pebbly blue light. will the stars let me connect their dots. draw pictures across.

you're a heatwave. head so humid. such sticky skin.

you're a flood. overcome by and overcoming. even what you leave behind in your wake, is still drenched in.

this midnight in my head. this day always on the verge of changing. but it never does. grainy, beige films of memory undress themselves down to the negatives.

i can't say it's over. can't say that anything is. because for that to happen something would first have to begin.