for brad (unfinished)

You send me snippets of little books of poetry
oozing from that brilliant blue mind of yours
words beyond their prime
words a child (you are a child, you know?)
should never know
never feel
I think you feel much deeper than you'd like to admit
lest that little dark spot that ends every poem
.
might get a little too big and then where'd we be?
Your voice echoes of a clear midnight
speckled with stars and bare branches
dead and dancing against the cracked spackle of the night sky
you aren't nature at it's prime
you are the barren winter night
crisp
clean and echoing of some ominous lie
waiting in the tease of the not-yet-falling snow
I can see in the lifeless captures of your likeness
a claim to a person who does not exist,
not yet,
a person who begs life
through words scrawled on pages
stained with tears and trials
tribulation, the blood of your finger tips
and the blood of those who bleed for you
You are the forsaken of the Fates,
the prodigal-child-prodegy
a progeny of a some phallocentric ultimate father
(with a capital F)
who birthed you and then set you aside
just to see what might happen
sewing seeds of turned phrases and playing words
that grow open-eyed into the cold sky
only to whither
for what can survive without the sun?
These little muses dance briefly in the starlit open,
but the cloud cover cannot be avoided
and soon the full moon is plunged again into the caliginous eternal
of the blind snowfall of the mind
what would you be
man-child
without these dead muses
scattered on the dark ground
(now indecernable from the dark sky)
would you still wave your branches
and let your blue velvet voice echo?
brave the world without the moon
and that honeyed resonation will ring clear
one can hear without the eyes
close yours
and leap