plow fields

world moves in as darkness falls
with rippling jaws, itching fingers and arms,
on a shivering carcass glistened moonlit red
with window-pane reflection stains'
incandescence 'cross the ruby spread.

these necks craned down and knotted round between
the shifty glances, shoulder-to-shoulder in frantic
sport, as they feed upon the steaming body's pulp
growl hesitant and touch eyes menacing across the
cadaver divide.

one can only watch the madness strewn across this
factory floor from which we're borne
with grim determination
to destroy the fray
to shy away to
die to hold a
second thought a waste of time.

nsa

a few painful gulps with eyes clenched around
the unthinkable drought that about brings this irritable quench;
ripping acidic, a dry taste remains, and a burning bubbling boil at the pit of its stay.
a vigor, it's instant in thought and in vision, it seasons a groan and the highest ambitions,
but it drig drags downward, and whispers to us,
and mutters with tuts and godly apologies,
and a bright crimson glow that condemns across a chapped cheek.

luna

the sky breaks with the promise of day as
blubbering gusts raze the goldswept land rustling the
curled paper chimes, and swinging along beside the sunbaked street
signs aligned across from every corner to every other;

somewhere birds are softly coughing from the height of branches
shading the swaying grass to the rhythm of the blue note jazz.

o god

egad, the blinding terror of
passionate, fleeting moments
transcending reality in all of the
fury and truth and joy,
and flying the
living daylights from the
eyes of the waking dead

of avering

lines across the sky and down
and down the street, into the ground
or down the street and up again to scar the
starkest stars that drift among the ruddy clouds
along the listless lights that line the sidewalk
tile paths along the roadways' funnel, past the overpass
and under bridges until they meet to end in dry dirt
ditches;

the grid elapse the span of us in
every kind of conceivable quantity,
a-shed of all the unbeknownst to ride upon
the height of omniscient ghosts

continue onward, continue on;
the new bland moment is tapping its toes across
the cold steel floor in this waiting room glow.

the hours are long as they go counting down to
the old silver pond in the pale moonlit glade.

the hilltops sing across a glancing light bounces,
the noontime sinks to a dull sullen gaze

the slightest hint of a minute's twitch,
like conceals the jester
a smirk with each passing joke.

exultation

above the limitless noise from every which side
blows the bubbling flow of stinging autumn air
that bites the nostrils, ruffles nosehairs with sharp take of breath
on this, the morning-like, of otherwise frigid nights.

the moon is dreamt with such volume and glow, it
with spiteful hint betrays the sun's absence and
rhymes with the nihilistic sky.

quentin

oh you curious notion, how
is it that you flit across my mind with those
tiny pretty feet of crimson gold
sticky wet daydreams sopping
seeping deep within the
'vices of my brain?

your sun-kissed wings a-royal blue, they
flow and curl my tiny world,
a-mutter softly their mother's rhyme
while closing in with dad's embrace.

comatose

yesterday approached to lay upon my table bare, sullen,
pale,
in breathless heaving agony and with hands feverishly tearing away
at its cheeks and eyes, till bloodened wet, and satisfied

and today wonders why it is and stumbles on with stuttering sentences,
it holds itself to keep its pace along the well-tread ground it stands upon,
but remembering why the passing time, it noisy slurps the dregs of dusk
in memory resentful fresh as it slips into the past again

over shoulder glances tomorrow to me,
as if to recognize the outlook dreary,
but quite contrary looks ahead to frantic searches for daylight's spread,
as if to affirm its only way to go as yesterday did,
or today, more so.

ain't it grand.

oh how this dreary world quickens to pick up on another happy soul
from where it sat to where it goes,
in blazing lights, beholds itself to comers new
and lovers old.

likewise mirrors, stained with streaks,
reveal themselves to desperate freaks
the grotesque nudity of horror truth
of compounding failure that rushes in
to punish those, the gnawing, suffering
fools of fortune with hearts of gold

and with that

a beginning war descends on this homespun world,
a spectacle of lights and picture sounds enveloping, developing
the last looks of last days that have ended abruptly as the past stays
to haunt the remnants of the supposedly dropped and forgotten, although
now to say it's all coming back, in a new shade of light and with profoundest regret
i hate to inform you that it's not quite over yet.

who am i to be so taken back by the boundless multitudes in parade of
evidence against my case? it's damning stuff, it pierces soul with its
pointed remarks, its empty charades: and there's the rub, in a blaze of glory:
it never troubles so it be known what fear decides is there to know.

o, fearsome spark of creative force: to you, whom I'm indebted to, I fear to open myself
so you would violate me with your vicious wit and calculated cynicism.
all that's left to bear is distraction's friendly, gentle ear: I'll whisper softly, murmur close until I forget
all of that there is to care of
and as eyes roll their way into the back my head,
I'll drift away dead on an empty cloudbed.

overflowing

the sweet release of the burst within from
beneath red walls of dirty skin from
pores and glands and ducts and urethra laden with
glistening dots and drops to somber burgeoning branches:
from every hour, from inside sing are the deadened desires
with aspirations for quick release and private pleasurable things.
oozes and goo of various hues, the whites, the reds and yellows and blues;
all clamoring throughout the measured pace of day-to-day meted progress:
rabble-roused to claw at walls, some shrieking howls echo corridors around
the labyrinth corners of a sanguine sponge as it heaves and drips
the holy host to line the mouths and wallets of
the fiends and ghosts that rape our lungs

unhinged

there is something awful to be said for some with
thoughts a-weaving threads that galvanize and wrap around
the hands and heads of self-composed and self-obsessed petrifying
masses of degenerate pride feeding on their dread exude from every pore
with bleeding wrists that flood their eyes and fill their minds
to flowing out and carry with them clots and scabs to scars and
bluster

quartered

she is, as is, to me but someone
gloom and doom and irrevocably
strong and proud, yet meek and weak:
mother, lover, and daughter to me.

she stands aglow, her chesting swells,
a simple shoulder slump entails a quiet
kiss 'fore her retreat to blanket cover with
tiny feet.

fair coffee hair she fans about
the arm rest corner of the couch:
she hums and laughs with the color TV,
licks her lips and looks at me,
and clears her throat before she dares
to inquire when I'll be coming there.

commitment

in the morning we sing our songs on memories all but past and gone, but for the
pain they bring to every thought that clouds itself by yearning; singing
for some deadly calm of mind, but for a thorn and whims of pride.
goodness, mine! with clutching hand to chest we heave in darkest depth,
and breath bereft for what we breathe: alas, if we could but stop to sigh!
o holy tragic comedy, o torturous progression of godly time!
unfurl yourself complete to end: o noble, sweetly shredded edge, your
upward curl of indifference hand:
the centre struggles, yet, to hold
in time to crush this noisome soul

witticism

consummate circles scurry to establish
well-worn sheaves of hearty critique
regarding last words by greats made great
for fame, shame, and enormous responsibility
undertaken by rusted hands and cutting remarks.
immaculate execution, executive decisions
by which placement adhered to silent bias
glides forth, as does a crushing wave

heaving hormones bursting flow with
pleasant repentance on the wings of
trumpet blares and roadside flares:
a pairing contrived by stylish concerns.
forgive me, please, my restlessness:
for once again, i am merely bored.

nevermind

oh, no; of course not, ever.
i'm sorry that i even asked.
please, don't, seriously, it's not
even anything, it's
silly, really.

no, no-- forget it, it's
nothing at all,
nothing at all.
hey, now listen; consider it dropped.
geez, i wish i had never
even thought to bring it up.

in lights

mmmm
wasted days have fallen prey to
idle thoughts on myriad ways
a mind entranced by solemn self
could wallow, wash, and fade to grays;

stirring, still, a hopeful look
that brings to heart a raucous jolt,
yet none too often understood
to bring to mind, reviving it

rendless endition

hopi wont to crack of dawn;
stumbling out from foldback flap of
painted peeling leath'ry tent
to don the skin he sings and sins in
out his pitted, gash-ed soul.

sandy eye curb blasting rays:
a sunrise strip 'cross desert plains,
the flats a-waver, scorched by day,
hinc illae lacrimae:
from abyssal part of pupil sting,
to ruddy basin claywrought bowl.

hopeful abandon

the race of mothers is truly dead,
preyed upon by vicious
means of unjust ends,
strength looked over outside limitations
of disaster society,
made self-assured by
self-justification
in the face of enormous oppression
to be fuddled with the warring world of
self-destructive regression.
sweet expanse across which are knead
further exploits in fatuity.
In all for sake it silent shrieks for
freedom, or the sense it's free.

crimson casket

outside the world of spins and lights the
happy take of joyous sight,
a blood-red matting sprawled beneath parade
of brilliant
facade:
pasty white and touched with hair in all of the perfect heres and theres,
style accord with ironic word, s'much involved with the a la mode;
and minds ablaze with rhetoric,
feverish discourse of pristine chic.
the mundane roar of the glorious mass,
hysterically jaded, from side to side a-pupils cast,
in desperate search for
cues and hints of how to proceed around the edge
of foreign things without consensus.
I shudder to think our Boheme elite, usurped by
image priority,
devoid of substance, 1-2-3.

piercing eyes can participate, or assumptions made by
groaning, solemn, self-composed manner,
but
i tire of the rabbit chase:
i long to speak without being heard, or waited for without a word,
instead of a grasping search for vapid, empty thoughts
at which to hurl upon the floor in hopes to
impress upon those assembled
the height and import of empty vessels,

but as consumption sets and shifts us t'wards the ease of impress,
we applaud and sing when we are met,
the audience a-fiddles, a mastered shade plays, with all of the right riddles
and ways in his way

a coward's quiver

oft and on, i've slipped through cracks of hapless rationale
with fingers crossed behind my tail,
an awful sorry glance thrown over my left shoulder
into the face of a salty Satan, as she mutters
an Oath to self, a prayer thrown t'wards the sky for
my Health might fail, and my soul should Die;

or at least I'd think that's what she'd be, as I skip
off so could I might see
some place where I might could might should might would might chance to hide.

addendum

doleful souls, gored by hopeful
hopes of homes as they exist within
the hearts of lovers' lips.

everhard favors

up ahead, the way i've seen
is bright and shining, wet and glistening
something golden, lined with leafy trees and
paved with good intentions;
my eyes are wet and glistening gold
my cold lips mutter something cold
and flutter-byes with iridescent wings
brushing snow from jacket sleeve
with biting wind to ears-a-sting.

pail

to figures round and halfway buried beneath the coarse grains of rice and sand,
filed down to a raw edge, dulled and raw, washed over with salted water, juice of lemon,
tears and spit saturated with viscous phlegm running over blood-red rusted iron bolts along
the edges of unloosened ends.
to somewhere over in nowhere i've seen, a tumbled half-mast flag of forgotten dreams,
the whims and thoughts of a moment long dead cloaks the ceiling sky blanket under a blackened cloud pouring gray-green rain on the top of my head.
to the end of the bellowing sorrowful shore, as it clamors against the sunbleached driftwood boards,
it hurls itself, it spills and grabs against the ground it splits upon

slogans

i can't stand the crowded rooms of
7 doors and several stairs, wooly rugs and high-backed chairs,
dissipate under sidelong glares with every word,
a cocked brow, a complacent smirk; a reek of smug, the t-shirts stained
with liquor from over sized coffee mugs.
the silence, yet, could do me in with thoughts of what those
unspoken words could bring.

crushing

open pastures under blackened ceiling bubbling skies, a wide-eyed wondrous
turbulent circle cycling recklessly natural, hurling the earth from
palm to open palm, throwing itself upward
in a glorious blaze of exuberant bolt,
a hayfire crackles its mute applause
as a halo of stars encircles the crown of the
freshly injured soil, as it runneth over
with darkest, ugly oil

dreamed

i've no desire to hide amongst the leafy trees.
although they call and hold my head above the
never ending daylit clouds of ubiquitous dread,
they sing to me with hopes of things that i could not ever
myself to bring.

i'd bask in rays of what could be, and scale a rigid branch to find
horizons ending, daylight dies, in western ways from where we lie;
a curdling, deep, and setting sun upon the souls of mountain wounds.
we writhe and grind our teeth a-feared, as another dawn comes looming near.

daisy

an ugly daisy,
freckled white with flaxen
stains that spread along the wrinkle
ravaged petals, thirty-one count
behind the glorious golden pointillistic patterns of
purity from which they
eject out into open air

overheard

in quiet bubbling
streams of consciousness
I fish, for more, a
complement
to ensnare by way of
baited breath.

the scales of gilded pearl
and light white-orange glow
and flow tonight,
but all of the world's an empty pool of
sifts and shifts, the solemn sands
that drift and drift across the depths
of moonlit waves of nothingness.

ginger ale

out of stark-raving green smooth
burns my tongue my throat
slides over tonsils.
nothing so sickeningly sweet
but sharp, bitter, quiet
understated, understandably so,
so it wraps around my heart
and lungs
and tugs

wars

breathe heave like dry bread,
up a cracked and lonely dirt road riverbed.
capsizing the crooked little canoe,
as was what was there was just for you;
whereas I pine and am ever green,
we brown and crumble, like waking dreams

green green

My love, I could not have come to know
how rain drops drip
and sink into the salmon soil;
to cumber my green, green grass,
and leaven your wiry wool.

open to fall

dry dry rye with a slice of lime pie,
a styrofoam cup of your darkest red wine
under glass danced on a tabletop days
a skirts hem to slip up a glancing eye gaze
through grasswind whispers that'd pass idle ears
to a mute crook'd grin slides a summersalt tear

tied

rain in me my head
rings my hands
wring my lips
murmur dead
passés from
dead times
with dead
friends with
minds rife with
dead clichés
and lives littered ripe
with dead trends
that lead eyes for
better days
unto the deadest
of the ends.

unexited

anchors a-weigh on a soggy wood deck
of sand salted paint-stripped beached shipwreck
lays on wounded hull side as the shore
teases the dead with dull ocean roar
in splinters along the crags find hope
to deafen, blind, and bring us to cope
a failure of heart to find what it can
and all is lost among the water and sand

all hail the new dawn

I'm one obsessed

with the state of Going;

much too much so
to bother with
the state of Is;
the building of Built,
the gilding of Guilt,
and the ceaseless battle
for some kind of
peace

if pages

if pages blank could say a word
or two to help assess my mood
I'd gladly watch an empty space
lend an ear and pencil trace
the edges of a word or three
that express the depth of misery
as that I wish I could explain
as simply as a pouring rain

opia

what joyful spirit this place betrays!
what happy soul it bleeds away;
a fancy free caught in my lashes,
puncture highs and small, trembling hands, placed
on my shoulders
in tiny, shocking ways;
abrupt, yes,
but
little earns my surprise nowadays.
what reaches out cross never lands
to never ends, we'll never see?
and no, not much lands on
ears bereft, or rather ears bereaved,
but a hold of hand would still my heart
and senses awed would reinvent
lifetimes of fragment dreams a child would believe;
ambitions gone, absconded with,
another end, another means,
to progress our hearts towards the sun,
because growing up means dying young

hearth

I


hold-on,
the son,
the dawn;
spit on your fathers and kill your moms
at house, the grown grow meek and tired
from dagger stares and primate liars


II

of missives crushed and ripped to dust
in notes of passive, fragile lust:
a crippled heart devoid of song;
hold on the son,
the dawn

postulate

to the occasion rises a breadth of able-headed boys in
various rags and scraps of cotton, leather and stained with the chemical color dyes
of this and there from when and what they've loved and known
for far too long to look too far through past inside around or beneath anything and everything
they've come to see and love and know

homes and forests from whence they come, nation breathless born in chains
frantic frenzied with crusader zeal, a leaden charge towards
simply nothing.
when allegiance to none doesn't count itself,
the ends is that from which it came.

cowl

how can i not hold
in my own turbulence
a wave of upset something, but nothing arrives
to beginnings but ends
and bits of this and that and everything
in between you and i.

corrupted curdle of exuberant flame
upside-inside, out and downward
spiraling out from left to right and back again
sparkle something, but nothing gained in terms
of visions of light or such things

blessed be my heart to me,
it stings with pride at the thought
of something inside
which it is not

every person is a screaming horror

every person is a screaming horror
facing forward, in a line:
hands folded, eyes aghast,
neat parted hairs
by a comb toothed fine.

on streets paved of blues and grays,
and pinball lights against defilade,
blood polluted and mind ablaze:
steady death is life of age.

every one is a howling terror
with eyes full bloom from gleaming face
and teeth of raging white and red
with bulging neck-tied veins that spread
below the chins of merry men
who laugh and dance and drink and sing

every person is a screaming horror
whored in rags of filth and tears
with hands lopped off and mind in scatter
a puffed up bag of dread or fear

comatose

faces are visions of absolute nothingness:
a meaningless variation.
within each a world of wonder and rich, vibrant thought
a construct monument to logic and reason
ay, but not truth;
because in death we understand perspective
and only in understanding perspective do we know the truth.
as each our minds form webs of reason
thoughts pass to dust and trail off in the air
of forgotten stories and kinships past.
our short, brutish stay on this conscious plane
begging the questions the answers provide
only in death do our minds calm
and acceptance o'erwhelms our instinct to hide.