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I'm Afraid that I Misunderheard

Posted by cdonegal on October 12, 2012 at 10:50 AM Comments comments (0)

I Think That I  MIsunderheard,

A specious argument, at best

For if, by thinking, what must be,

Both damned we’d be and blest.

A thought a dream

A hope

A scheme

(What fools these mortals be!)

As flies to wanton boys are we

To gods

If they exist.

A dream, a thought

To be…or not

(The world is but a stage)

If we are actors, everyone

Methinks we’ve skipped a page.

Asleep

Awake

A wake

May seem

(And seamy might it be)

(I’d rather see than be in one)

Would, then, I cease to be?

I hope that we are real

(Nay, ‘tis. I know not seems)

The terror’s real from unslept dreams

Phantasm, plasma and the rest,

An ectoplasmic meal.

The spirit is willing

Is that real?

The spirit is willing

Is that all?

Life is very strange

Truest myth as real as we

(My God! Did Adam fall?)

The joke’s protracted

(if not practical)

Upon whom is it played?

We go to our beds like graves

(“Praying,” he chortled, “saves.”)

I dreamt I wrote.

I awoke

I think

(Therefore, it seems, I be.)

I be

I be…

I believe

I doubt that I believe.

I believe (I think) in God.

Please, God, believe in me.

 

From

Shape without Form, © 2012 Craig Lancto

Athena

Posted by cdonegal on October 8, 2012 at 8:55 PM Comments comments (0)

Athena

Rubber erasers slough their skin

Burnt and rubbed away,

purged like the sins of Hamlet’s ghost

burnt and abraded by

the gyroscope of intellect.

Immolating themselves

moths

to the brighter light

of brighter lights

of men

of letters.

Pencils shed their gray philosophy

Scratching ignorance from

the blank dull face

of college-ruled.

Etching a thought-map,

Exploring new territory,

Shaping the terrain,

A narrowing spiral of

symbiotic stimulation

The writer looks up

Startled at

(The mirage of) an insight spring

Overflowing the surface

With revelations

Sprung full-blown, intellectual Athena from the writer’s brow

Skating slender tracks across the page

on delicate sapient skates

Addictive lines of

Thought

The writer, stunned

to learn what he thinks.

Perplexed at the source

of unsought,

unsuspected thoughts

Bewildered by untapped conceits

lurking behind his eyes

Bemused,

he gazes at the hand

that shaped the thoughts

his mind had shaped

the hand, innocently inert

its work is done

He is dumb

At his brilliance

Awed at the clumsy grace

Of this fleshy extension of his thoughts

Translator of the electronic impulses in his brain

He traces the words to their origin

Up the arm and past his elbow

Above his shoulder

But he disagrees, he sees.

He sees that he doesn’t think

what he thought he thinks

and he is afraid.

He knows.

He understands.

The arm is the medium

Communicating with

his unthought thoughts,

Beyond the recesses of

his consciousness.

Another eraser bites

the dust.

Creates

the dust

from dusty

pages,

rough and worn.

Another pencil dies a hero’s death,

worn down in the service of

inspiration

The point honed in argument

is lost,

Dulled by ignorance,

shined to brightness

Dullness defeated

in the unexpected quest

for clarity

and truth.

And rubber erasers slough their skin

In noble sacrifice.

From

Shape without Form, © 2012 Craig Lancto

For Matthew

Posted by cdonegal on October 7, 2012 at 8:35 AM Comments comments (0)

For Matthew

Death

A raindrop in the ocean

(Though mine, to be specific, is not pacific)

Rain.

Is this real?

Loved ones gather

(Petals fold, comforting the bud.)

In protection

Rituals done

(Petals open)

Loved ones disperse

Band-aid ripped from raw flesh

Unprotected

Naked and vulnerable

Tongue seeking extracted tooth

Phantom ache, bone deep

It’s so hard when they go

Young

Stone hole in the ocean

Concentric grief rings expanding in salt pools

Word formulas leap to tongue

(When does feeling return?)

Sympathy drips

Drools, oozes

(When does pain become normal?)

Damn the rain

The cold

The cold rain

It is a cold drive home.

It is a cold home.

Headlights spotlight conifers

Lining the lane

bowing in curtain call of silent grief

Unable to leave

Evergreens and ungreens bowing in the wind

In silent witness

A mocking honor guard

Sighing in the wind

Whispering grief

Closing ranks

Like petals folding in evening dew

Boughs sighing, tires hissing,

Nature grieving

for another leaving

Sucked into

A nightmare vortex

In and down

Mouth agape

silent scream

Arms outstretched in supplication

And terror

And fruitless hope

Or one

Or both

Or not

It matters

Not

In this hollow echoing soullessness

This empty soul, resonating with despair.

A body

disembodied

bewildered

and sensibly insensible

to pain.

Pins pricking in belly

Gorge rising

Aching to awake

Aching from a wake

Plinking a stonehole in grief’s pond

Tossed by the mighty hand of a

Petulant

Boy-god

In bleak whimsy.

The pond can’t resist

The stone falls through

The hole

falls through

in silent rings

filled

but not the same

patched

with a surrogate soul

patched

with hidden patches

Ripples spread

Across the water

Unseen on the benighted shore

Lightly touching

Souls insensible

Spreading ripples of silent sadness

(Pocked by rain in silent madness)

Rain

Why does it always rain?

From

Shape without Form, © 2012 Craig Lancto

The Juniper Brotherhood

Posted by cdonegal on October 6, 2012 at 8:00 PM Comments comments (0)

The Juniper Brotherhood

This is false fire, stoked with gin,

Burning to ashes the secrets within

Earnest tongues flicking, souls being bared.

Sharing fearful hopes with one who never cared.

The ashtrays are clean.

 

Truth of ages, conspiratorial tones

Eyes blurred, confessions intense

Unwonted, unwanted,

Lowered defense:

The ashtrays are dirty.

 

We are the juniper brotherhood.

A boor within us charges

To be heard

It must be heard

(It must be said.)

The ashtrays are full.

 

And then the dawn.

And then…

the dawn.

 

Too many cigarettes

Too much gin

Too many opinions loudly adduced

Unneeded and

Unheeded and

Unasked.

The ashtrays need cleaning.

 

Headache

Drowned doubts revived.

Stomach sick as heart

Pride (Aroint thee that inhibits)

Privacy (emotions on exhibit)

Rape (I’ve done it to myself)

I…

My mind…

Is stale cigarettes.

 

From

Shape without Form, © 2012 Craig Lancto

Electrified Fencing

Posted by cdonegal on October 5, 2012 at 11:30 AM Comments comments (0)

Electrified Fencing

Mind games in deadly earnest

Sumo wrestlers of quip

Tentative touching

Of minds

Icy fingers on the brain’s genitalia

Laughing touchés

Touches pas.

Guard the barriers

Scale the fence

Touch me and you die.

Reach out

Wearing rubber gloves

(Guffaw)

You came

too close.

Honesty

Candor

(psychic pests)

Tell me who you are.

Let me know your mind.

(Show me yours; I’ll show you mine.)

Let me know you’re mine.

Lobsters

Crabs

(the hermit type)

Scurrying

from truth

with open claws.

From

Shape without Form, © 2012 Craig Lancto


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