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

Unguarded Utterance

Soul Phantasms

Poetic License

Old Mossy Moon

Lothario Art

Intelligent Ash

I am Paperbag

Catvibe

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

Rueful Response to a Query: What Were You Thinking?

May 06, 2009
blue rogue

It’s not so bad, really. Just another
scrape on the allegorical knees 
stumbling over how perfect 
you could have been. After all, for me, 
there are only sighs, silent  
eruptions of longing 
coalescing into something 
hard: bullet-like and never ever to be 
bitten because of one reason 
or another. Cuts like these 
never matter. I bought one hundred 
band-aids printed with yellow smileys--
in a strange Comedian-esque 
fashion. It helps to grin 
while pieces of you meld against
my soul like candle-tallows on naked
skin--burning a mark that leaves
a space of purity even when it hurts. 
All of these happened 
before, again, tomorrow, 
next time I wrack my head
for reasons why 

you should stay. I never 

come up with anything, except, 
to shove back into my pockets 
fists that clench tightly 
holding the radiance of our hours, 
when my world becomes utterly still, 
wrapped up and alone
within the expanding,
unconscious joy of your laugh.    


PROUD

November 27, 2008
blue rogue




Play It Again, Sam

November 26, 2008
blue rogue

In all the empty places
inside me the words
rang, solid
filling in between
stretches of longing,
of hours
waiting. This time I cannot
mute the tremors
as they shatter
every tenuous chord
linking my self-worth
to the fingers that used to
strum my soul
with the songs of angels.
I close my eyes, tuning out
inner wails long enough
to compose the harmony
that will make the replay
more gut-wrenching
like two hands
on either side of my head
as they slam against my ears:
To
Hell
With
You.
Now, every syllable is seared,
captured perfectly into
notes of violent sadness
I have felt myself become.
So, for the last time:
“Play it again, Sam.
There is no going back
from where you’re headed”.

DIVE

November 16, 2008
blue rogue

Her claws stung from grabbing
shells on the wet sand left behind
by fishers long gone from
the afternoon oyster hunt.
Swooping low and close, still
her eyes catch blurred images
of surfaces. Within her grasp,
the ridges scrape raw
blisters, make her wonder
if oysters are formed
by rotting. Shaking sand
and dreams from feathered limbs,
she ventures out. Strong
beaks sweep past faltering
claws, clutch hard. The small armor
head snaps, the outer shell
bone gutted. She cracks
a smile, a brief cursive
like the upward arc
of a bird on air --
the one who just swallowed
one more hope.
The one shrilling away
the silence.



--------------------

I was kind of wondering what will spur me to write again. I never expected it to be peer pressure. How juvenile is that? Hehe. Thank you very much for the write-up, S.L.! Probably going to be the best advertisement I will ever have. Heh. And Rax, I owe you one, too. *wink*



Senility, thy name is... what did you say your name was?

CARTOGRAPHY

April 08, 2008
blue rogue

From the tips of his splayed fingers
to the edge of the horizon, his
vision can map the distance between
fallen leaves and the V of geese that fly
home. When his calculation never arrived
at the same point in time and space ,
he concluded: this proximity between
human bodies must not be
a question of fate
but of intent. He will prove that
intimacy exists merely
between the interim of consciousness.
After some time, he would
murmur in frustration as to why
he is off tangent when he tries
to angle his own way within
the radius of another smile,
never factoring how each degree of
affection always comes in pairs.

Inclined To Say No More

March 23, 2008
blue rogue

Inclined to Say No MoreI got here a birds-eye view
of loneliness. A map
of scars that healed
by themselves, snaking
their way between ridges
and slopes that have gone

too jagged.

I want to move the mountains
that wall away the valley
where you keep your sighs
all the things that make you
ache, hidden
in some make-shift grove
only the child in you can ever
see. Way up here,

where I hover
above your lips, the air is
too thick for words to travel.
My senses, in some semblance
of calm, can only roar
while the ground rises up
to swallow fragile constructs
of sound and comfort and worship
until all that is left is a trembling
of plateaus, leveled by the sleets
of your first rain
my vision foraging wetness,
tongue tunneling soul.

Some Year-End Shower

December 31, 2007
blue rogue

This kind of rain, I do not mind.
The one that cups the curves of my body
in a gentle intrusion, insisting
an awareness from each pore
to define its existence within
a greater scheme of things:
breast and hips and ankles
lips and fingertips and that gentle swell
in the back where the palm belongs—
all awakening to the infinite, tender, mindless
coaxings devoid of any need but
to run the length of my surfaces
before dropping to the ground
in a silent perfect freefall
unheard even without
that sudden swell of desire
shaking my core.