Highways and Hierophants

Oddly fitting that this is the blog's 100th post. I self-published a volume of poetry called Highways and Hierophants. Most of the poems, excluding the 17-page capstone of Suburban Sprawl, can be found on this blog. If you're interested in supporting my poetry, you can purchase either a paperback book for $7.98 or a PDF download for $1.25. Having received a copy of the book for review, I can say that it is beautifully formatted and printed, and I encourage anyone who is interested to purchase a copy. The online store is here.

If you read my book, feel free to send me an e-mail and let me know what you think of it. My e-mail address is located on the publication information page.

Indentured Attitude

The grandfather clock is shouting syllogistic headroom warnings
Telling all the ghosts within to hold their head up high
Because he knows that wisdom matters and upon the window splatters
Little bits of joy with every bird that can be fooled

Yes, city-stationed sisters sit in silence as they pray to pockets
Hoping in their highway hemlock to have a happy time
But as they mix their lifeboat lemons with a lingering decision
They soon realize that everything they hold dear is simply dull

Catatonic cosmic cronies crooning chronic cryptic calls
Are crossing Jesus on the Friday at Golgotha
If only adversary wishes and the aspect dinner dishes
Of Martha and of Mary could be harnessed for such good

Yes, believing diamond dagger dreams are destined for epitome
That level-headed leisure languishes those who know to bluff
Never-handled autocrats with orators and deaf mallrats
Even Cesare Borgia knows it is neither papal nor is pure

Corrupted catcalls coming from a copious cavemen crew
Who sit upon the stew of sentenced subway cars
They wait for form and formulas that prove their holy worth
Standing at the birth of both banal bundled bores

Imagine all the nightmares of the daylight crawling through
Your open dead-end tomb that sits beneath the plotted plain
As unknown cards and paper priests provide the happy hymn
A dirge awakened bursting from the flames that never die

Maybe it's not your fault

I remember looking out of the window
Beads of sweat were rolling on the glass
Through the open screen, a breeze rolled in
Smelling of the summer days we had

I had learned to hate you, my heart simply froze
My tears became the salt of an ocean of loathing
I forgot about your smile, your gentle touch,
I forgot about the nights that meant so much

I blamed you for my downfall, we both played a part
I won't excuse your lies or say you're not at fault
But I heard a tinkling music box that reminded me of you
And I feel my tides a-changing from red to blue

The Crimes of Egypt

Hello again, familiar friend,
Worker of the pyramid,
Hebrew slave of Ramses' will,
Lover of a single god

The whip, the lash, the snake, the staff!
What miracles your Moses brings
Your God commands the Angel now
To kill my son, or kill the sun?

Horus, perched upon the sun,
The Nile and parched prisoners,
A sea, once parted, never healed,
A wound between our people

Goodbye for now, my foreign friend,
Who worked upon the pyramid,
Hebrew slave of Yahweh's will,
Lover of the single god.

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Passing triumph, horns that fade
The armies march,
And march,
And march,
In service to Julius Caesar.

Beloved, rich, great, and kind;
Cruel, beguiling, winsome, wise,
Praised, the heir of Venus pure,
Golden-crowned and blood-assured

Beasts so brazen, Vercingetorix,
Cursed slaves and Gaels to spare,
Triumph now, beloved Caesar,
For tyrants never are eternal

Brutus rising, soldiers paid
The armies march,
And march,
And march,
In absence of Julius Caesar

Reflections

Fingers slash across my pane
Streaking blood across the glass
Shrieking schoolboys left in pain
Driven from their corpse-like class

I see my gaunt and shadowed face
Reflected in the window pane
Haunting me with morbid grace
Grasping at my marble cane

As my nose begins to bleed
The floorboards warp beneath me
Calloused claws crawl on my feet
And wrap around my knee

That which lays in fallow fields
The tawny work of peasants
Seeks revenge for silence sealed
Beneath the crows and pheasants

And as the banshee wails in fright
I see my face within the light.

The Empty Shell

Beneath the oak trees 'round my tomb,
Inside the Sacred Mother's womb,
Beside the sordid sister's call,
Hallowed by the will of all,
I see the Empty Shell.

A seed unplanted, stripped and bare,
A child ne'er to breathe the air,
Familiar forlorn horns of hope,
Lost beneath the peddler's dope,
I see the Empty Shell.

A curious magician's trunk,
Filled with all his useless junk,
A top hat pulled from underneath
His cape, with fingers of the thief,
I see the Empty Shell.

Leaves across my open grave,
I am the autumn's brilliant slave,
Aristocrat, née Plato's form,
Those that keep the dead so warm,
I am the Empty Shell.