Laureate Moments, i.e., Nominally Less Execrable Poetry

Behold! The first post of the new decade! Notable only because I promised myself that I would have one the first week of 2010 even if it kills me. And let me tell you, success is sickeningly sweet.

Well, I've accomplished all of my New Year's resolutions, how about you?

What follows is a short poem I scribbled about following dreams—penned during a troubling time when I briefly considered giving up pursuit of the writing life.  Subsequently it was published in the June 2003 issue of the (now defunct) Smorgasbord poetry journal (an occurrence that was in no way affected by their choice to publish my material, I swear).

This perfectly demonstrates the old adage that, whenever a door closes, you'll feel a faint draft from an open window somewhere far, far, far away from you.

Alabaster Bullets Through the Brain of a Cynic

Smoke your dreams.
Pluck them fresh from cellophane womb.
Step without looking—
    cup your hand and light the end.
Dead dry matter sparks new life,
    infant dream crackles forth.

Each, a silver tongued prophet proclaiming
    hazy gospels, wispy prayers spoken
       in glowing orange dialect.
Persistent fingers of flame singe my world
    crisp and ashen.
Cool breaths of menthol usher in icy spider veins,
    waltzing within my tired lungs.
A virus strangling stale air, and I love it.

Fuck the nonbelievers and realists.

Stagger home stinking;
    of rotten lavender anticipation,
       of bittersweet stench clinging,
          of scribbled memories and unrequited lust.
Wake tasting wet sand and cinnamon,
    crusted cognac peeling off scaly lips.
Stammer back drunk and dizzy—
   finish every dream.

Where’s the hope in snuffing them out unfinished?
Harvest a midlife crisis,
    or a half-empty glass future.

After reading the above someone once asked me, "What's the significance of alabaster in the title?"

My response?  "None.  White just sounded stupid."

Photo Credit.