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

Redemption.

May 09, 2005

Let's see if this one works...


Minute Explorations

Vagrancy is a crime,
but I remain stapled
in my cardboard bed.
Along the sides,
(of a smooth thigh),
I inch my way slowly
into the steaming warmth of--

a kitchen.
Where you pad around,
cupping tomatoes like an offering.
Drinking a glass of water,
uncaring of the tiny rivulets
dripping from your chin.
Rainwater on the crevices of your--

tent, where we slept,
tired and wet.
We rolled over blades and blades
of untampered, bristling grass.
Reminiscent of how my tongue
would scamper in glee, intent,
in finding the fluid thickness of--

hotel drapes which we shut.
We bask in the moistness
of stained sheets.
Two days worth of air,
humid with musk,
in and out,
each gasp, a drowning in--

waves and waves
of saltwater washing,
coating tired limbs with sand.
Each foamy gust
like our mouths,
searching every recess
for an opening--

still unexplored.

blue rogue