Tag Archives: Candles

Weird Upstairs Walking Guy

Weird walking transsexual guy with long hair in trendy respirator mask.
Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

There is this guy see
who lives upstairs from me
he’s the weird upstairs walking guy
walks and walks
but he never says hi – until today
he looked disheveled and bruised
hair all a muss
toting a bank bag full of money
and I’m wondering what all the walking is for
floor to floor
he walks and walks
till a quarter to four

Is he shooting darts
or is he shooting junk
is he hiding a decapitated head
in a hand-carved wooden trunk
has he stashed away the body of Cinderella
takes her out in the deep of night
combs her brittle golden locks
until she looks just right
props her up on the couch beside him
as they munch popcorn
and watch “I am Sam …”

Or maybe he’s a Buddhist
with incense and candles
and lots and lots of fluffy pillows
he kneels on his straw mat
and bows to the sun or to the moon
or to the neighbor beating his dog and grandma
with a pinecone and a bat

I always see him solo
never with a mate
and I wonder what his story is
what is his twisted tale of fate
how old is he
how much does he weigh
does he believe in Jesus
or follow his own way
what does he think about
when he drives to Albuquerque
does he play a Steinway
or toot on a green bottle flute
enticing the charms
to rise from the ashes buried in his carpet
does he drink white wine or red
what does it mean
when he screams like that
is it merely bad dreams
or frustration bubbling to the surface
in the form of dragon fizz and warm oil

Does he watch Regis and Oprah
and maybe Dr. Phil
or does he watch the motion on the ocean
three vodkas and three pills
is he a menace to society
or one of the popes
does he smoke razor blades
or psychedelic dope
is he a war veteran
or a homosexual
does he eat pot pies
or filet mignon
is he French
or is he Irish
does he have nightmares
or fairy tale dreams
does he have children
or maybe a wife
has he attempted suicide
with a rusty fruit knife
has he called on Allah
to save this bloody world
or does he sit back and sip martinis
whilst smoking Izmir Stingers
not really giving a damn
about his brain anymore

All this I wonder
but don’t really care
I wish he would just stop walking
and leave me to my Russian bear
the one that looks me in the mirror
and says…
Please don’t stare.

Zoo Candles

Photo of candles inside cages. Zoo Candles.
Photo by Craig Adderley on Pexels.com

I awake to the finale soundings of a dream, pears crystallized by heaven’s lamp of heat and love, the disco spills out onto the street at 4 a.m., stars bungled and bundles above. I lie like a body floating in the bed. I talk to the ceiling, I chat with the windows, I argue with the red walls, I yell at the floor. Scuffling forth toward the day of wood, coffee brews, madmen stew, angels on pyres burn, rainbow wings like volcano ashes, the swimming clouds, the broken bones, the mad shopping frenzy on Holiday eves, the eaves of the neighborhood roofs tinted with a white glaze of frost, Christmas trees chopped and bundled, presents dissected beneath its branches, love a mystery, missing, a flowing and wanting ache at times, other times a wishful hope, a tender kiss, her eyes like blue waterfalls, her warmth beside me, love is more than anything one could ever know, the penultimate leaping circus, the penultimate cherished touch, the penultimate heartbeat.

Some days I think all is lost. Some days the future of life seems slightly bright, like a torchlight in darkness, and those times when I look ahead at a world without me, I wonder where I will be, where will I float endlessly, what colors of the sky will I see, that is, if there will even be a sky. The hum of existence rides like trains on rails, the gentle rock, the hypnotic sway through a countryside of rolling green and small villages, mountains and curving streams, lapis lazuli skies above Nepal, the long valleys of green and ice and towering mountains. That day I found a plastic bag of money outside Kathmandu. It was all foreign to me and I didn’t know how to speak. I ended up in a restaurant and had ravioli and wine. People were laughing, people were covered in ice and bruises. They talked about that earthquake that changed their very existence, changed the landscape, buried souls and dreams and buildings. Everything in life seems lie an aftershock at times.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to fly in a plane and look out the window. The clouds below me instead of always above me. To float on a funeral carpet of magic, to feel altitude changes in my guts, to eat peanuts and choke because my 7-Up was drained. A snoring idiot across the aisle. I couldn’t understand why she was content in missing the blessings of sight and feeling. Where do I float to now? Most of the time I don’t know. Maybe I never know. My guts are restless. These aged guts twisted in agony and contentment at the same furrowed gravity time space. Would it be easier to just be medieval? It’s never been easy. This road we walk upon, these bricks are not always golden.

I looked down out of the plane now. It was finally dark. The planets and the stars were up there in our way. The smear of melancholy lights below atop the Earth, pinpricks of existence, of life, of movement, of pain, shame, being insane. The zoo candles flickering among the fur and cages. The animals howling for freedom and food. They just want to be loved like all the other living things. Love fills the distance between hope and fear. Her blue eyes cast wishes I cannot always fulfill, but they also cast a love I never knew.

Applesauce Cat

Warning: Mature Content

I was sitting in the din of another rum-soaked afternoon on High Street in some far away town. I was alone as usual. The clock was ticking behind my head like a reader counting down the days to my ultimate demise.

I looked out the balcony fortress at the world all messed up and angry with itself, and I saw a cat eating applesauce down on the sidewalk around the perimeters of chalk art and lonely hearts.

I was cut like dynamite all up in my guts… my face so fucking worn away from the droop of negative gladness that I felt like gravity sucking at a skull through a circus straw, clowns all mad and boisterous running around with shaving clippers to cut away the dirt of dope all muddied in my blood.

It’s the countdown to broken neck as end of summer lawns hiss as the sprinklers spit at the grass like riots, I am hungry and in pain deep down in the belly welly of life on bourbon street sans street, the plastic puppets of a childhood tossed in a bin scream redemption but the oily candles only bleed sin and throat blessings designed to curb the swearing are merely molestations of the skin.

So God, do you have a dick in which to fuck the universe and all its celestial holes?

Alcoholism and roughed up love meet in a bar down on Bleeker Street. It’s puke and madness and a dying heart just trying to reach out to another Rings of Saturn soul, blowholes and arrows, hard drinks and drugs and tattoo flu shots trembling at river’s edge, in upper north Wisconsin, where I want them to spread my ashes, like tumbler cheese on a cracker, and GODmother is dead because money is more important than any sensibility of love and honor… fuck you Chicago and all the piss you dump and pray for… my ass hurts, like a tiger biting into the bone, and I tremble Atlanta, my home, my five-fingered mannequin bone, restless and destructive like a coffee-scented angel on the 285, running circles round the metro like a honey-bee hive, all full of stings and poison and air machines for the lungs, my head, my life, so heavy and strung out like Christmas candles in a circus, a mall walker carrying a tombstone and a blowtorch, attacking the restless kiss as if in a never-ending dream.

Wallflowers of Chemistry

You invented love
like dragons spit fire
the longing when you are gone,
is an immediate reaction
I’m drawn to your eyes
I’m drawn to the night
the full vibrato of darkness
the stars splashed so randomly across the universe
we can touch them if we try

Candles melt away so quickly here
this otherworld, this neverwhere
We are a collision of chemistry
wrapped in coils of electricity
The ache of our day
becomes the joy of our night
empty wine glasses and ghosts
the bluest tears,
the reddest blood

The valve has been wrestled loose
the drips drop incessantly throughout the house
Impenetrable venom
impenetrable malaise
Someone broke the switch on the furnace
and it’s coughing up hot laughing gas
and I choke on my own experiences
Am I sad?
Am I happy?
Am I a supernova,
Or just merely a simple star,
blinking randomly
from within this skull of space?

Am I a colored moon
peacefully napping
with a nightcap perched upon my point
Or am I a black hole,
sucking on everything that exists?
Or am I merely a chemical byproduct
that sits in an empty room,
waiting for night to pass
and day to begin,
when I can talk to you
and feel my heart thunder against the world

But sometimes,
I just want to be a rocking chair,
swaying gently
amidst the dust of a long-gone grandparent’s den,
listening to the easy tick of the clock on the mantle,
watching the footsteps fade deeper into the carpet,
waiting for the sounds and smells
of a childhood lost forever
lost in the woods of autumn,
across the icy bridge of winter,
into the wet grass of spring
and along the thick dreams of summer
on some Midwestern small-town porch

And so,
when do dreams end
and reality begin?
When is night’s finale
and day’s birth?
One fluid sweep of time
and the Earth still tilts
and I still stare at the ceiling,
catching glimpses of you
in my mind’s eye
the baby’s breath in my fist falls,
landing in a blanket of fresh snow,
you pull up into the white gravel
and I can see your smile through the windshield
my heart still rattles
as the sun breaks through the clouds, and your hand clutches me in dreams.