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

Scenes from an Alternating Universe

May 07, 2005

...these myriad of lives I have absorbed leaves me hungry for what could have been. And yet, at least, I hungered.


While Asking For Directions

I asked tentatively
If we had met on some other street.

Just like this, with me stopping you
as you walk to a purpose I will never know.

Beneath the light that shielded your eyes,
the wind whipped your hair to your face and

you pushed it away with a hand that
I suddenly wanted to grasp.

Does it tremble because of wonder?
Or you have forgotten that and it was only the cold.

The way it glistens with sweat despite the wind,
the way the mole between the index and forefinger breaks whiteness,

does it mean that you hurt
easily? Tracing those lines

so obvious. Tempting my imagination
with your apparition, going through--

endless nights of washing dishes,
holding on to the iron rails of hurtling buses.

Home is a bed sheeted in grime,
The body beside you, a substitute, a dying warmth.

I am invoking a story
that might not be true because--

I am looking for a soul to bring home with me,
if only for tonight.

I wanted to grasp that shaking hand but
the wind has stopped

and the hair you brushed back
now stays still.

The light has gone out and I see your eyes mirror
what our hands would have felt.

We are both uncertain, unsure of what to do
at the touch of something good.

blue rogue