2011 Mix

Liturgy

exhaustion
          wins

fighting and ex
cuses are
         beyond
him

besides,
(and this is
         no
thing to be ignored)
there remains
          no
small
amount of
        love

Still

at these times,
when he touches
               Her
She 
   dis
solves
beneath his
           finger
tips

skin becomes fur
and 
murmurs, moans
and dis
       appoint
              ments
transubstantiate
into
     purrs

in those 
moments, it
no longer
         matters
he
no longer
         cares
to know
each crease
each crook
each crevasse
             No
they do
       not
(themselves)
           matter

they are re
born
they are re
fired
     and
Nothing
       Nothing
worst of all
              No
One
can re
      claim 
his heart
         from
its
   deepest
Home

Collapsing a
top her, worn
and
   spent,
tears fill the 
              empty
spots that
          She
cannot,
as he whispers
              sound
less
    ly

I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I am
    so
very
    sorry

c.sdmrogers 19 feb 2011

Terminus

an end is
at hand

at hand, at hand,
what 
does that mean
at hand

it means

close
close enough
close enough to
               sense
but not identify
close enough to 
               feel
but not see
close enough to
               suspect
but not recognize

when it is
close
     enough

I'll let you
know

c.sdmrogers 6 march 2011
             

237 Lost Things

after the Stolen hours,
the Silence
the Abyss
the Emp
       ti
         ness
deeper than Alone
because there 
             was
Together

c.sdmrogers 8 march 2011

Missing Albert

houses have spirits

they hold on
to shadows and space 
in the infinite ticking of 
clocks
suspended irreverently
'gainst the waxed
waning of the moon

and where are you
my love
my lost
my almost

the combination of
fact
    and
truth
     and
dream 
that lives in our
houseless home

encrypted by that
which we love 
most
caged by that
which you love
most
    We
exist

proof not of
determinism
positivism
          nor
any sort of 
pre deter mination

but
   of
relativism
relativism
relativism

with Us
spirit has once
again conquered
technology 
          and
in Our universe
the only
       absolute
is
  love

c.sdmrogers 20 march 2011

Palm Sunday

what lies 
at the 
      bottom
of the
      bottom
less pit

the kernel of
truth 
that is every
cliche
      or
is there
        merely
darkness

along the edge
she walks
circuits ever
widening
circuits ever 
closing,
she watches
she waits
for the green
the promised
Green
to rise from
          under
the Black

but on each
turn there remains
only
    Grey
only
    Smoke
only
    Cinder

even the 
Yucca
the invincible
Yucca
are fallen,
stripped and flayed,
their flaking fronds too
charred even for
Black

stop
bend
touch
     slice
the skin,
       cross
the too-long
Line of Life,
            cleave
its fork with
fingers dipped
   Indigo
to
   Carmine
then
    back
again

and suddenly
she knows
she knows
she
   knows
what lies 
at the
      bottom
of the
      bottom
less pit,

at the
      bottom
of the 
      bottom
less pit,
there is
        simply
More
    just
More
    only
More

The Wrecked
The Torn
The Mangled,

their 
branded faces,
their 
stigmatic palms
turned up
turned 
      Up
crying

for release

c.sdmrogers 23 march 2011
Acantholysis

in the night,
the strength of
the grit of
the pluck of
claws
notwithstanding,
penumbral arms envelope
me.

in the day,
through the sheath of
past the coat of
beyond the tiers of
lashes battened fast,
phosphorescence finds
me.

indigo voices,
distant and familiar
as childhood dreams,
purr against my throat, 
carving out
Hope
where none should be.

although
the righteous logic of
the desperate duty of
the sanctified claim of
Now
appears victorious,
it is not.

it is not
We are not
Over

it is not
We are not
Done

in the night,
in the day,
in the blue and the black,
I thought to tell you this.

but
you know
you know
you know
you know

just as
you know, 
have always known
the unknowable,
the touch of
the scent of
the taste of
me.

c.sdmrogers, 19 may 2011

Dinner at Eight

your profile in repose
lies
beyond reach

stubbled jaw
shadowded cheek
sunken eye

(tired, tired
always 
so very
       tired)

do you feel the drag of
one 
perfect ungues

down the outline of
(black and white,
no
  colour)

what almost
might have
should have
         been?

c.sdmrogers 26 may 2011

Necropolis

she stares
         browless
and blind
into the Sun
where tears fall
unseen
unmarked
unnoticed
         uncounted
into a tarnished
silver phial

she sits
      curled
and cold
on the edge
where any act of
kindness
where any word of 
comfrt
is a Danger

c.sdmrogers 30 may 2011

© s rogers 30 may 2011

It Was

one before 
I thought of you
today

one before demons dug
their creosote claws
down the fissures of my
swollen heart

one before
my faded smile
remembered Why
and melted to the asphalt

one before 
the red-tails fell
one before
the coyotes fled
one before
the sun the sun
my sun
flung the black crape cape
around his shoulders,
turned his back
and slinked,
shamed and sullen
behind my greenless
eyes

perhaps tomorrow
it will be two

c.sdmrogers 2 july 2011

Lacerations

No, no, which was the first Richard, 
Richard Tow or Three?
For Shakespeare, 
I mean, not historically.
I used to know things,
things like that.
I was once the annoying guest.
You know who I mean,
the Uncle
who stands above
the turkey bones
to prattle whole soliloquies.

But no, not now, not now, not now.
Now, they point and say,
"Down there, Sir,
your room's the last one, right down there."
But they lie.  That room 
is not mine.
That room is his.  THe stranger with
white hair.  Mine is black.
"Black silk hair,"
as Rosalind
might have descried,
before this mind went past repair.

c.sdmrogers 24 September 2011

Poppies

Remember, you are...

sent in the morning by someone loved
read in the fog of an eternal winter
drawn in the fireless wind whose breath
smoulders
still

looked up to.  Remember...

down ecru lines masquerading as hallways
behind vivid cold blocks of non-microbial tile
hang crosses and stars of service and valour
and
death

you may even...

beyond double-catch doors of bullet-proof glass 
in a bed too short for even his shriveled frame
beneath the weight of wounds long forgotten
he
lies

be adored.

his generation drifting silently away
cloaked in words almost as forfeit
Gallantry, Heroism, Fidelity, Merit
Honour
Duty

Remember, you are looked up to.
You may even be adored.

no, no, no, not I
no I, not I, but
yes, yes, yes,
He
He and He and He and
She
All

    adored.

c.sdmrogers 8 march 2011