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