Dreams

I saw a grouping of dreams,

bleed into shadows

pushed through uncertain horizons

ferociously seeking

higher ground to ascend

the view, diminished

people fading out

like footsteps on blank sand

I saw a murder of dreams

buried beneath my own

and wondered:

will soil alone

comfort the bones

of broken dreams?

are the bones of dreams

at peace?

are they released into the sky

three dimensional voids

desperately finding their way

back to earth, into eyes?

I found my dream

on the roof of a lonely tower

blown by chance winds

looking down on the dead bodies

of other dreams

that were reaching for it

the dark clouds opened

a strange wind blew

and more dreams fell

little spatters of blood

upon my skin.



copyright (c) 2011 by Vincent John Ancona

Unpoetry

Poetry is broken, gone far away--
bailed in the darkest hours.
Abandoning

without care. Poetry, won’t you
please stop being
unsure?

You see, I know you’ve wondered
Should I desert
him?

I’ve seen you hit and run
like a practiced
desperado.

One manicured hand covering
half an eye, half a
reality--

but I stayed true. Poetry, I’ve wondered
who and what we’ve allowed this to
become

over the years. We’ve changed
so much I can barely
recognize

our faces. We’ve grown
together, grown into
symbiosis...

But it doesn’t seem you understand how
his goodnights still shatter my
heart

How badly I’ve needed you in this empty
month when you became white between
lines.

Poetry, I know you realize not everything
boils down to syntax and
deconstruction.

You tried not to let them smash you
with ivory hammers into
screaming

pieces they still call Poetry-- but I just can’t
seem to find you anymore buried
beneath

this avalanche of emotional debris where
they say your heart is still
beating.

Copyright (c) 2011 by Vincent John Ancona

Lovesick

I wanted to reach inside
your kamikaze storm
and tear out
a sun

Hold it up to the Heavens
with trembling hands
and let the masses
see Love

I wanted to jump from
your hellfire skies
and fall securely
into feathers

To close my eyes gently
and expand weightless
inside your nuclear
arms.

copyright (c) 2011 by Vincent John Ancona

Letting Go

makes the heart
spin wild
on troubled axis
braced for shrapnel

means mostly gutted
using entrails
as a compass
through blank forests
and doubtful skies

stares the beast
into withdrawal
asks no permission
to unbury old bones

slowly embraces
the unknown
abandons careful plans
and familiar pain
bends so as not
to break

means crawling
inch by stubborn inch
until there is light

gives love
back

copyright (c) 2011 by Vincent John Ancona

Love's Metamorphosis

The butterfly
you told me to kiss
that rests on your lips
shattered wings beating
desperately against unworthy flesh
trampled legs kicking off flakes
of currish skin
creates blood between us
stronger than stars or dogma
stronger than philosophy or discharge
When the dust calms
the butterfly
becomes a caterpillar.
I swallow it
and kiss others
love resting safely
in the heart's cocoon.

Copyright (c) 2010 by Vincent John Ancona

For Dad

I will not wait for
your approval
anymore.
You see
I’m getting older
now and I’ve learned
that chemicals, unlike choices
are for keeps.
And we’re both not sure
how to address this
roadside bomb
so it sits patiently
waiting for
blood.

You were always there
in increments.
So divided.
So practiced.
Mornings haven’t been the same
without 5:00 AM and English Leather.
The familiar sound of your razor.
The slant of light
through my bedroom door.
The groaning hallway.
Your heavy hand
across my head or
the shadow of your car
moving slowly up my wall.

I want you to know that
I always wondered how it felt
to be inside your flannel armor.

I want you to know that
I am struck by your ability
to only cry visibly twice.

I want you to know that
two strokes later and I'm afraid
time gets your heart before I do.

I want you to know that
I was always your son
even after my sex betrayed you.

Copyright (c) 2010 by Vincent John Ancona

After Love

I wish I could be on your
lev
el.
You’re just that
far
out.
I couldn’t be
further
from you
if you were
12,500 miles
away.

Your angry tears
drop like
bombs a
series
of
near
misses.

It’s the smoke
that really
kills.

Copyright (c) 2010 by Vincent John Ancona