PUTTING COLOR IN THE DRYNESS
There is no blood! There is no cross!
The deep ache which our hearts assay
...depression!, lunatic, unreal
...never meets us anyway.
No petals bloom the flower we feel
should we inscribe a lonely song
because the shoddy echoes steal!
because the TV is turned on
whose money jerks our thoughts away,
whose noisy noisy comedy
is smoke and light
and turns the day into a night
and snuffs the honor of regret.
And briefly do we sense the loss
from time to time, like love's ennui
...or just before we go to bed
in smoke lost from a cigarette
that so provokes a senseless tear
from eyes that itch
and smear...with red.
LIKE A THIEF
How can I make you love me?
...and how to fill you
with a dream of me!,
unlikely and impossible
and utterly untrue
slowly steer you to the dire
(smoke and steam
profuse upon the fire) inadequacy
as stony bare and vile.
No! It could not possibly
be the same for you!
Oh dream and lullaby and light
to which I give my wounded guile
like a thief
who steals you
in the night.