CAVEAT

There is a place called
The Crossroads.

An intersection.

An intertwining of shadows and colors -- shards from boulevards of broken dreams, dizzying prismatic cascades of brilliance.

Be drawn into the murky whirlpools. Drink from punctured holes of sunlight. Whether you seek respite or redemption, this is only what you make of it. But we remain, always, our own guardians.

Welcome, Traveler.

I welcome myself
into my own plane.
On a rock, I carve
with my dagger
an inscription of my name.
With the little, sordid, tangled
deaths of day-to-day battle,
I will ensure my immortality
when the dust has settled.

-- Blue Rogue

SCRYING GLASS

Intelligent Ash

Poetic License

Soul Phantasms

Unguarded Utterance

INTUIT DIRECTION

We always arrive
at our destinations
with the help of stars.
Their ponderous trackings
benign and benevolent
in their certainty.
Salvation mas merely
a twinkle away,
and vastness
becomes more measurable
if inhabited by constellations.
But Neverland
was not included
when they made the compass,
and stars are too silent,
too jealous of secrets
cloistered within their nebula.
I am a mariner
in my dreams,
where oceans
can never be chartered
and heavenly bodies
are more mischievous
with travelers like me.
The moon merely winks
at my telescope
as it pulls the tide
depending on what tugs
the edges of its mouth,
making it smile.
Instead I sit
at the top mast
surrounded by a breeze
coming from the sighs
of a thousand sleeping people.
And then I wait,
intent,
for the merest wisp
from the stuff
in which dreams
are made of.
I listen
with every fiber of my being
for the sounds of clouds.

-- Blue Rogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Site Design by: S.L. Corsua

Incessant Shufflings

May 11, 2005

We all love a good joke. Except if you are the fool on the hill, speaking with a thousand voices, unheard and hearing nothing.


ON GREEN VELVET

Dealing a heart
was my misfortune.
And at the wake of this last move,
I mooned, restless,
dangling on the verge
of another unfinished solitaire.

I turned the cards too fast, too sure.
My clumsy shuffling on purpose,
as if trying to maintain
the lucidity of an ordered deck
as if trying to stall the inevitable limbo
that follows a game of chance.

The boldness of red,
the tightness of black,
and the simplicity of the goal
simmers on the surface of my concentration.
But they are elusive.
An expert wrist flicking with ease,
my mismatched cards
and inscrutable longings.

After a thousand cards involving
a thousand choices
I am yet to deal
with the phantoms of discarded games
and the joker's hand
I've been playing with
all along.

blue rogue