penitence

i find myself temperamentally unsuited to face the jeers and chuckles of
the whistling rabble, who, thumbs plucked from pocket tops they
precariously hang upon with the weight of those
broad, wind-catching shoulders that strike their positions, even as they
seamlessly blur into an unchecked pirouette with that uneasy diffidence
cursing us all, will offer up in way of a rhythm's return
these bland assertions,
quips that kill a room and strap my tongue from any its apt remarks,
in such a demonstration of the consequences plaguing those of a more
calculating mind befitting a young...I'm lost for a reference.

there is not much to be said for
the art that gets you by the daily
struggles and their empty
nests in
empty thoughts abide

new photos

those awkward kids that adopt
steely looks and
treated hair
to me betray the simple past
they spent like moments
of a waking dream, or
memories of something
new, deja vu, so it seems;
i remember one,
sprinkled, pimpled, freckled
cheeks,
now rubbed to
glisten under
neon lights,
her hair was chopped, a mop
now smoothed into
locks of fine thread
weaving around her ears and
neck,
that innocence that
hovered about her
stained red lips, now glossy hard
a visage, adult, sophisticated
but mostly
just a fleeting image of
decay

holds

there is a moment that
holds me together like
a warm brick wall
newly stacked,
gently padded with cement and
laid atop one another
across and across
by a sweaty man's
calloused hands

brunette

my renegade daughter
with hands that
unravel and explode

an adamantine smile
that rides the
easy wind over

collapsed around
decades of her eternal
growth

wrapped carelessly
in existential questions
and flights of fancy,

stirred with chamomile,
drunk in slowly

snow globe

it's all just a
tiny glass bead
and i come and go
as i please;
where i exist
within this burrow,
free from
slings or whistling arrows,
competing ideals,
stuffy nonsense
of the outside
world;
desires and memories
which cease to be
the threshold comes to pass
have no more a hold on me
than episodes of a dream

laundry

i really like taking my wet laundry
out of the washing machine
and putting it into the dryer.

to hear the behemoth
slushing, whirring,
moaning and churning, then
its gathereds coming into
dazed inertia blinking,
questioning,
eyes adjusting to the light before
being hoisted out for more

is to know that helplessness in the face
of hidden fate's enigmatic advance against us,
a raging machine
of tumbling chance
that we cannot help but to endure.

they lay stretched and whipped across those
gleaming black walls breathless
and exhausted, dripping
drops of water around the bottom of the
basin, gasping

having been dusted in a funny white powder
before being thrown and drowned inside
a maddened cauldron determinedly emulating
the rushing blow of an angry river's water
upon their cotton blend and pitable
buttons clinging to some simple threads,
they fixedly gaze in quiet shock
at nothing in particular.

"all of that,"
he said,
"is a bunch of bullshit."
"it is whack," one agreed,
"it's the language of fear," he continued,
"it traps the soul. It provides no pathway
for one to go. promotes distrust, self-destructive lust"
"disinterest," added another,
before said I, "seemingly enough."

ain't happening

march on,
through the stream-lined ticker-tape
city parades,
through piss-soaked back alleys
and cash-cluttered, overwrought promenades,
bleary half-eyed open and mumbling halfheartedly slogans,
slurping down a cold cup of coffee (cooled by time,
not by ice).
blessed be my 21st century;
breathing down a chiseled back its
mounting pressures and tangling ways,
reliving our most desperate moments,
swirled in the tar black self portraits
down, down, down the old road lays.

the great grief of fortunato

Upon a glade in Misty May
I came across these Charites, three:
each blossom bloom in holy singularity,
each gaze reflect a fix'd
innumerability.

Such subtle sloping of their shoulders
in supple stroking fed
from gently 'round their fertile forms to
infinitum ends; a point upon each
blessed womb in punctuated glory bound:
umbilicum mundi
from which the scenery expound.

Rolling fields of ample crop
adorned each comely crown,
from blank marble pale each brow atop
burst bountiful shades of honey brown.

From stoic poise to every way
root simple limbs
and idly'd sway,
born'd down from
the silver trickle of the stream
to huddled trees, hilltops away.

What is left there to behold
but those mind-abiding fields of gold,
cascades of light in eerie bright
bold blankets white upon those
sacred shapes that
silent bathed
in immortal purity?

What fool's so sped in his depart!
Bumbling on in light of heart,
that merry den had
sense confound:
Spotless in his certainty that yet
again it could be found.

What gleaned from rustling branches since
has my desperate search for Eden given,
but that finely woven wind
is yet graying in memoriam;
its fleeting warmth can only serve
as cruel suggestion of wondrous worlds:
a tarnished souvenir, impotent
paradise misplaced.

Then should I welcome misery's reign
when time reduces joy to pain?
When all the Earth can not return
the chirping worship of those birds?
How I lack that hallowed glade
that I found in Misty May!
Be found once more
I humbly pray,
the Trinity of Gratiae.

family ties

i'm not hamlet either, you know,
but i imagine that
the ungodly presence
of my father
is enough to drive me to
profligate
thoughts
and time spent wading in my
own insignificance

hire

motionless, today
another honest augustine illusion
basking in the rays of its
frankly shrugged confusion
the hearts reflected in those
needy eyes
of mine
boring into themselves
by the light of the mirror.

black hair. it's black, unlike the glossy hard smiles,
but more the betwixt tooth gaps;
some eyes like tiny tiny
plaintive sighs
rove and roam across the room,
scratching at the paint peeling on the wall,
quiet pinholes
absorbing light,
making sense of this
myriad of glorious sight.
i see the face of a newborn child,
asking for love in its smile,
holding back a hint of surprise.
locked tight, rigid, firm, free,
a frame i think of
tight against me
with a hint of her breath on my
still-beating chest,
a silver little laugh,
a quiet joke told in mutters
that makes me chuckle, and spill
some of my coffee on her shoulder.

what two roads may never meet,
but for the wonder we endure?
and yet i know just what i'd miss
if i came knocking at your door.

dune

rise, the mast,
shearing off its
fur of sand,
slipping off,
a velvet dress,
golden brown
and effervescent.

still, the sun
its waving form confound
the muddled eyelids
and dusty brows
the wandering set
ambling indentations sift
the grains between
their feet adrift.

grazed the hull with
calloused fingertips,
prayers mumbled,
paid respects;
its faded chestnut
hues of earth,
blast by wind and
the sun's scorch
drinks the skin they
lay against its
exhumed
magnificence.

fair and balanced

mark my words,
the lexicon established
since the moment that you,
eyes open,
like a gentle, sleeping babe
on a clear cut, softly bedded
pile of golden yellow hay,
stumbled out, moaning, groaning,
hair out of your eyes and teeth glistening
hungry for the first bite of day,
reached for the plate they gave you
and feasted upon the broad array
of slippery slopes,
the dreams of common folks,
sleeping under the common weave,
graying black coarse burlap sacks,
hidden underneath and looking up
to night time skies, beyond and past,
has found you back and forth
the pen you hold,
back to the corner
from which you birthed

misanthropology

I.

i am so fucking glad to be apart of this
heathen generation of
bitches and assholes, rending their hearts
aparts on the docks of an old sea run dry,
blessing me with their pine tree smiles
for all their worth
for about 10 miles
in every direction!

each mind pervade a drift and wide open
blazed their blinds, and with seas and sawed off
hopes and dreams, oh the irony he said sarcast-aside,
how clever endeavors break upon neap
tide

for every vainglorious
eye cast bloom blush
burst open lash batting
bitch made
man son of a boy,
i've heard the sound of thousand
horrible jokes
some nudges
some pokes,
some high expectations and some
broken broken hopes
made with reference to Tolstoy
(wow!)

comforting, i guess it's not
all rested with omniscience nestled
deep across its heavy breast
and harboring its empty vessels,
bringing golden Aphra Behns the
softly light advancing hence;
the morning virtue turns the clock,
the TV's loud and the
radio's on,
and i hope to catch my breath when
i'm neck to neck with imagery
commonplace unfortunate,
daft beyond all misery,

hopefully the sound's unspoken
and painfully awash awoken
by the sounds of hapless babes
devirginized by a new age,
bereft and huffing puffing
death-defying mace aside the leather bag
oh how we've deceived them! and they have been
taken by the words they've taken
conflated with the only words they've heard
but haven't learned themselves
averting eyes disaster rides in the face
of all the maybes
the world can offer for 10 a-buck
advertisements around the clock,

but for all of the nothing castles
float upon the clouds of folly fickle
and rain their shine and pour the wine
it flows it glows and down it goes

fie expects, fie fie fly
because of all the things
expect to pass the worst of things
and watch them last your friends and loves
and homes and hearts,
the constants whirring arrange away
contents content with mounting contempt

a bridging break stone gap it cries
it cries it cries! oh don't you sympathize
the world explodes its tears erupt the
sacred landscape bare corrupt,
a kiss blown gone and down away
the mocking stench of memory

with hate you all
with hate you all
careless and disappoint
another phone call
embroiled mind retreats its hive
the reminiscence dance with god;

if only you could see the violence deep inside of me
i see blood and pain and joy be gained
i'm not excited by anything but death
an artless poem, a lack of depth
the clarity breaks the poetry's gone
perhaps the words be fetched alone
why write words when no one reads?
and those who read are dead to me!
what's left the greatest minds have been
marred by pride, and inability to see outside
a blanket bunch of broken souls
self conscious eyes dug underground and entrenched
trenchant, fortified

the dumb are still alive they
break their backs working their livelihoods
they buy excuses on the dollar dime
and nickeled in the
shiny shine

no theres nothing left for the meek unable
blank bereft
the dignity of life is gone
take us now
before it goes on


II.


friends are a wilting flower broken
another nothing note passed under the doorway
asking for a favor or two, affirmations mentioning
mothers fathers and social forces' confluences
approbations, rejections, masturbation;
ha! i've lived the best times of my lives
hiding away from the prying myopic eyes
messianic solitude, solidarity
messenger supreme, absolute certainty.
apocalypse now! the end of man
the fall of the human face the countenance
dead,
satan gone, jesus vain,
an hourly rate driven to the minute.

friends broken an illusion muttering
selfish breaks in a smile a frown
a sympathetic glance it looks upon
passing sentiments another subject
it runs away, brush against,
give me your heart and lent ears
borrowed away and frustrated tears
no the cross is heavier
the wood is splintering the weight
crushes the homeless thoughts that strident
cry
shelter shelter, the dying branch its graying leaves
the gutter aside it collects its leaves, devoid
of description,
without mention mutters hopeful
tea kettle porcelain separate face
gently inlaid, its blue lines scripting something
sincere, but is it real?

the world eats itself and spits you out
the product of a thousand years of regurgitation
cud-chewing folks with premeditation
commercial, conglom-o, global circumnavigate,
advertised and infiltrated
the arts! the books! the philosophy! the movies and the TV,
(oh, but not the poetry!)
the magazines filter through
the lowest common denominator
until it is all substance, groundless
style, flashing gently a street light
an abandoned street, wet with rain,
paved with pain, the softened lights glare across
the slippery cement hill

GOD COMPLEX! open its eyes,
the world is a miracle and
she is its cause,
the opera intones its layered notes
kaleidoscope tragedian Capulet
copulate,
the social circles,
fawning fame seeping
deep the corners of a naive brain;
brace yourself, my dear
the end is near
and the pattern indicates a fall from grace!

the world oyster yawns its
tongue lolls out the tail droops
oh its all subject matter
subject to change
the empty anger, the passionate rage
dying light is our salvation
the light itself has blinded us.

remember

remember me as i was
i had laughs and fears
and i cried sometimes;
every once in a while
i made halfhearted attempts
good tries,
on my behalf--
to make good
on some of the promises
i've made.

today was nothing,
yesterday i said
"tomorrow shows
the future of these
messy lives
and all of these
unwitting blows"
and yet again
i'm not sure if i know
if yet again
tomorrow comes
what it may cease to show
or what perhaps may unfold
but probably not
still instead
they say
its a
permanent solution
to some temporary problems

i feel

there's a distinct lack of effort
behind every thing i do.
illusions drive me forward
i don't know what holds the reins.
all the while i'm determined
to figure out the prospect of
enjoyment along the minutiae of it all.

there's a distinct sense of
disappointment that i feel
when i'm called into the room.
there's a number with my name
and a brief, uninteresting appointment
in an office without a face.

i am constantly ashamed of
the things i have yet to say.
i want nothing more than to succeed.
success is everything.
yet i can't prepare
for a future that leads nowhere.

moonbrush

blasphemy be my 21st century;
blessings marked by brazen impotency
believing in me, these crumbling trees--
crooked branches crackle-sway, crackle-sway--
bramble blanket whistling wind
cover hover arching over dirt pathways.
gutters lined with empty letters, shifty eyed a summer's fall
inhaling deeply its winter breaths
and memorizing a winter death;
the sun lifts later bound, the clouds curl west, and
mother drops her heavy lids and mutters
prayers for the best.

in lights

a requiem to our dream escapes
some love-lost lips anticipate
some long-lost reward, still yet to come
perhaps, or not, if there be one.

in golden gales and exploding sky
if or when yours should meet mine
i imagine nothing passing by
of worthy note, or memory.

i should think that years apart would
make fonder yet some fonding hearts;
yet i am wanting of quiet sympathy
perhaps without which i'm unlovely.

in all in all the worst to come
must be the break of expectation.
i declare, it's no good to care
when loving flees like seeds in air.

tired

are you not lonely when speaking words are unspoken thus,
and daily partners locking eyes see one other but barely found?
like icy steels whose shoulders brush,
some rushing trains from to and from, uninterested and duty-bound.
inside each mind a king contained: a throne, a hall, a hand bedecked with sparkling rings;
in measure taken back a step, yourself you hold in charge of things.
but is it cold, so deep inside that lofty vault of ivory carved?
no foreign thought to penetrate, no requited love to disregard?
such purpose outlined in your face, and poise enacted upon your action,
but no subtleties that surprise you here, nor answers meet your satisfaction.

Do you breathe your sighs alone? Or is it for having never spoken
to substantial spirits out beyond your own
that you have staled and withered by, an ageless look that appears to die?
with wisdom well beyond your years that alienates you from your peers;
fashionably distracted now, and sociably intact.
grace us with your presence once, once inured to find
some privy disassociation thus was better left behind.

in the suburbs

the house won't leave the front lawn buried
its feet and tail in the backyard;
the trees dangle leaves blow lazy in the windswept
dust ruffling empty streets of clean paved charcoal dark
black cement.
a toe tap sidewalk touch and the birds exult
tweetle singing praises tootle whispers in the wasting breeze they went.

but there's an eye for every eye we spend when we cross our paths
our shuffling feet coinciding upon these dead and empty ends
so spend a dime for every
time a minute dies;
inside the hours click on by and
saturate the air.
the musty smell of pages
turned
compiled soaked in skin flake musk,
a seething sun, a new day earned
and sunlit dreams in disrepair.

chances

chances are, if you're aware
of it there's nothing much more
there to care
about it at all, suffice as to say
that i suppose it's something
you carry away.

what you don't
know can hurt you still,
and what you know
can not as well;
the blending white
envelops words
and worlds apart
your own hell.


call me early,
i'll be gone
for as long as i'll wait
i'll be heavy with the
passion, sorely;
i'm in no mood for saving
grace,
or for swallowed pride,
the kind i hate.

inequalities

remember everything, or nothing, same;
the arms we cross, we write our names,
the sands we tread have blown away,
and all the while whistles tunes
of marigold and dry skin gray.

call to me, i'm drawn to truth,
spoken by an anointed fool.
i've come to listen to wasted words,
awash in me the cries of birds;
in indecision animate
the unfolding fire of endless shame.

there we come to huddle 'gainst
one another's sagging breast,
but i cannot hear the wind for whispers.
between your breaths, the silence whimpers.
and then i'll come quite questioning
the realities that you've portrayed.
and all the more the empty roar,
the tug of better sense, perhaps.
of course, of course, it's all for naught;
the consequence of happenchance.

nonsense

all of this is nonsense, my dear;
it's all for naught, it's naught but here,
and since i'm told that wheres i've been
are uniform, and numbered slim,
i'm unsure, but my chagrin
is written on a page again.

seizure

when the room rushed a river exploded, when once the eddies broke
their slick wet concrete chunks blown far and wide, and then we choked;
an ill-met gaze, petrified, finds us wide awake.

a harrowing silence collapses the room to a point
between his eyes,
the faucet gushes hysterically,
the television cries;
muttering, trembling without a grasp
shuffling through some loony tunes,
but silence reigns throughout the room,
clock hands refuse to make their pass.

his gaze dim lit reverberates
an echoing laugh still parades and jeers:
night black pupils, Scythe and Hood,
a deathly glare, and there we stood.
when his mouth from out it spouts
bits of dinner and
in goes my sister's fingers
desperate,
he sinks forward like a child's old balloon, yet
all at once; a frightful rush
of plum red face and madness.

and soon the shudders, his rigid shell,
the house lights dim, the music ends
for the departure of a dear old friend.

our screams and incessant pleas tear his
hair and pick his skin
out from under our fingernails;
his teeth bared and bloodshot eyes brazen,
his arms brushing us aside,
raving like mad, baring his gums,
bursting our lungs with frantic circles,
a windmill tilts,
frustrating hapless attempts to help.

when he dies, the screams
degenerate into muffled cries,
sopping bare and clawing at our eyes
those cleansing tears trapped
beneath the fabric of our faces;

and then a cough says he's alive.

reliving, relieved, and somewhat revived
under grateful glances from tired old eyes,
half-hearted attempts to laugh past
errant hairs and awkward pauses.

father

the roar of the garage door rips
through the air, a veritable trumpet
blare, call to arms, reveille, a burst of snare-

beat of drum, steady rude:
the rumble of unison step as it forges
a pathway through the godly feud.

a boisterous voice
declares his toast, the lamps burst open,
wide as blinking eyes,

golden bright light streams and paints the ivory walls
dandelion.

"Drink to me, my Children three!"
the Pops of bottles' cork;
overflowing porcelain trough
and clutching dinner fork.

"Tonight, we feed upon the host of food prepared by
God's own hand entwined with the spirits of the Good!"
A bounty erupts from the clatter of burning pots;
as black as coal, they open up to bathe the quiet family
with an aromatic fantasy of salts, sugars, and saturated fats;
a moment's hesitation pause before they gorge themselves from the microwaved vat.

revelations abound

what a strange season
of upset winds and fabled gusts.
darkness stirs and
neon bright blurs colored spread across black water puddles,
and every hurried upside glance
resonates avec moi

the land of opportunity

oh, in the land of opportunity
i see a shiver in the waves from the
transient effect of the moonlight's lazy glow
glistening on the water like the sleek shiny black backs
of salt ocean mammals, to and fro;
a mountain's scrape across the old sky line
its heavenly splendor spilled rhythmically
down the old rounds and up again into the
darkening clouds.

oh, in the land of opportunity
come chances bright and shining clear
we determinedly set a course
for any shore that's shining near
with singing heard above the noise of
crashing waves and desperate gulls
i'm circling boat around the drain
for reasons that i can't explain

springing

so much of joy is
hidden in corners and crevices,
shadowed, obscured by the
light of the mirror,
and bruised by a slight brush of
the fingers.

withheld

only now can i see the things i've missed
and every time i read again will i remember what has passed
and what is there but there to know
of world and man and lastly self?

touch the sky

diamonds sing something fruitful brings
sun shining gleam across the chariot race's dented rim;
without itself it quiets down and settles in some
unknown town
but now it crows its mighty wind jostles the
assorted wigs and tablecloths aside the
dusty curbed street miles' line

man's modern interjects his
empty nest a foreign debt;
his crowded alley holds the weight of all
the world's gone wistful dead

his bird has flown, her eyes ablaze
is upside forth and backward gaze.
the anchor huddled her callous wrists?
as she tears away, she tears from his.

the arms they bore held open no more,
but for sake of sake, the ground's embrace:
and for all the doubt we live within
the disappointment leaves a taste

forget me now, and forever be it so
that you may have some outstretched hand
a tongue's tip wrapped around the
sorry mix of dull little letters that
scrape our sounds and make a name.

free me from your memories
of times impressed upon you deep
to have some recollection of
the thoughts you have of me.

release me from your
monstrous gaze, i beg of you to let it be;
the flight of love decays of days
and harmony begs of you and me

madness

of some madness I
to some degree
and to say that I am mad
is to say that you agree
when is it that you recognize some
maddening mess within me?
perhaps it borne as you asked yourself
am I mad, or isn't he?

proven

remember, my sons, when the world turns black,
the faces of those who have looked upon the triumph of a
fallacy gone flat. and
when to scoff at proposals
of such a motion
would not betray such subtle notions,
beware, beware:
the lofty pride of presumptuous fools will
bring about the rushing ground
as kingdoms crumble their own weight
beneath the air they once surround

astound

i cannot abide some
trembling throat guttering
glimpses of some things unknown
in opted ignorance rises chorus of a temple set to worship
airs of its salty breath reminiscing on some
old hypocrisy, or some obvious insecurity:
all things simple, sincere, and unsurprising,
almost upsetting in all
of its
unawares
and urgent uprisings.

but then i choke, a
sense of reaching out beyond my
place to hold,
in peaceful relation with my
spirit caste;
incapable of letting go.

perhaps it is so much our similarity
that tears us from our truest sense of
shared humanity as dearest friends,
but for some joy that never seems to see itself
in this sordid competition that will never cease to end

my

the way of things must stay the truth
in order to officiate the
distribution of the goods of which
i am privy to!

to think that i've spent quite some time in
quiet racing hoping thoughts that unfulfilled will
crown the path to some uncertain fate of mine

this sacrifice cannot be made, for the sake of
this labor unbade

but to believe my luck will change
will necessitate some concession made
and to believe my fate to chance
the sacrifice my life advanced

this this this

every wednesday cries
some hands outreach for breaking bread
but will suffice some bit of poison to pacify this
urgent dread

aggression

there is a hammer in the eye of the sky;

its gentle push when eyelids flutter in
the breeze;

rocking, swaying,

as if humming to a
beat.

and so bend,
clouds solemn, in a sullen downcast gaze;

bundled up in urge suppressed,

and mottled with some darkened hints
of undisguised irreverence.

brilliant

this coffin lining muffles unnerving voices rounding 'bout some
stiff remark served underhanded, cold and comforting, some satisfying genius stroke of the ego and its own.

western points

some five crown stars, adorned by wisps of graying clouds,
will desperate cling to the auburn sky,
determined by the will of god:
"you who will be near to me
will be set to path at the height of glory".
for fate will often indicate
a future black with tears of gold,
and thus unworried, unoccupied
with the spread of time's unfurl

in due fashion

break forth and take hold the object of your unending longing;
it from self withhold the brutal truth of an aching soul!

how our exploding stars of raging hope do ribbon out in streams of folding
backs and strangled tones, in hues of such diminished light, so damned, broken, and thus untold!
with a surge of wind no discouragement made as to the length and width of their liberal spread,
but this dying stride of a blessed ride does suffer that from which it's thrown!

frigid

careening off the sides of a red-heart
chasm saddled with the echoes of a thousand voices;
the sounds abound, they sweep across and wear the
cliff-face down
to shatter upon the rapid surge
eroding away, the ruined ground

gifts

Creation blooms a birth right weans itself
from the supple river of milk running down the center
of a sacred world intonation;

Progression bursts like sticky fruit
and slops the world with messy spurts
from a bleeding wound;

swinging reckless tearing hold on the short rough hairs
of Anger's rage,
with feet gripping place in the fat skin's fold,
a bloodcurdling screams past the ancient green mold
around the ears to the brain
and then it explodes!

webster's

untitles write themselves across
a nothing space from which it lacks a
grievous way to grab an urge create a
swelling mass of insanity in tribute to the
commonness bereft
of its commonality.
through this, of course, the words they flow
and stroke the quarters of our deepest harmonies
and sympathies;
the ears, they hear!
a-sound so smooth it slips a simple finger to the depths of the soul!
when the silk of a simple throat pitch hums and it drums with the
hurt of a rich, rich tone!
i groan and grovel to hear the blessed magic of another,
rattling off and popping pistons in the air,
boiling bubbling hurling its witticisms in the wind!
a melancholic gale, quaffing a sup from the dregs of a lake,
and heedlessly hurling its fate t'ward reckless abandon!

held

from the same old seat
shivers a tall glass bottle with just
a little bit of white wine left hugging the walls and
melting my insides, inside-out;

what a waste it is, to recall with
utmost confidence the times of days gone by,
and bygone the times for all intents and purposes.

but here we sit, wet-fingertipped with lips against the glass
we hold to our mouths as we bear the grand procession of orderly events
it bleeds away from daydreams stretching out back decades since

to stone

i think to how my dreams were shaped to perfection,
specified with architectural precision;
life's without its sense of forward march, and in time's blank stillness
burns this concept absence seeks to mold.

our plans are forged in the furthest hearth,
with towering flames our hopes are formed.
with beauty unspoken, from ground it grows,
an ardent helix:
hardened, solidified, and unperturbed.

wrought with passion and fanned by peace,
ecstatic to find a that which it leads to
some joyful penetration of the tacit reply,
as is the god's mutter against the blank of the sky.
but when unravels helix, to wondered dust,
the future reminds us of how it's defined;
separate from that it leaves behind.

damn

love spills like fine wine
upon some favored shirt of mine

maturity

as two loves will tear their future selves
and search for scraps of self-referential notes
on happiness and loneliness conflated in dusty backroom bookshelves

in three years across a citrus
morning landscape bounty
tumbles over another horizon's searing glow,
and three years see another version self in its day-to-day come-and-go.

pounding sidewalk cracks with wooden soles of tailored shoes,
ten years will see us without a care for
all the world of threes and twos.

orange emblem

tonight i should think there is nothing nicer than perfectly
blue, blue skies to look upon when lying down
in war-torn fields, apocalypse surround a
rainy day without a cloud,
awash the blood-soaked battleground
of charred battalion and blackened banners
at heads of slaves and feet of masters;
as ashy gust kicks up a dust storm blow through
empty schools and ruined storefronts.

and all the while i can just but breathe my only breaths of air
and let me red grass whip itself against in vain attempt to rouse me from the
whisper thoughts that draw me off
to vanish in the wind!

aren't we all so

much obliged.

reside

whimsy thoughts are spread across
a quiet harlot's lot; her blanket frayed,
its tassel braids, and staining dots a paisley pattern.

she calms her nerves with sup of tea
and clears her throat and mutters pleas
to god and worldly ruler as would a dog on winter's frigid night.
the stars, blinking, stare to respond with vague repose and background noise.
and cloud slinks away, uncovering the glowing scythe of a shrugging moon-like apparition.

my god my god
she said to me,
my life without a joy or hope
of coming days that bring to cope
with ways to find my truest self
is gone from me and nothing else;
i wish to live as they once did!
i'd like to fly and deep-sea dive as
birds and dolphins, breathe and cry
with truest friends, taste and hear the sweetest
fruit of mankind's song, in tandem anthem our earthly flow!

but No!
she shakes her head in violent throes
and pounds the ground with
guttural groans; she tears her hair, the grass, and earth
and throws her shoes, her jewels, her clothes
to waft away in shifting winds,
to separate
into everything;

the winds, they swift!
her frenzied arms in tandem dance with
creaking branches, the groaning lifts into the whipping
whispers of the air, and chimes of grass split
the searing rush of blanket noise that
emanates from every single place and where;

Oh my god! she shouts,
now with her bare, blunted body being blasted
by rain,
her blackened hair tangling in the madness
of the wind,
Where am I to find the unsold souls and empty miles,
to simply live and raise a child;
to love in full! for living free!
she cowers and shies, in shame perhaps,
she saves her face from a reply
that may imply some judgment of mine.


but I can but
but only say, that
if you fear for your sanity by hatred of your very selves,
then you must destroy your sense of individuality.
all will be well once you integrate
into that which it saves you, and earns your hate.

optimism

there is dirt
between every crack and crevice,
dust kicked up from flying gusts
when busy flies the metal bus by,
loud and upset downcast its circular metal constraints,
it crawls to stop with a huff and puff and swish!
the sliding doors in birth to shuffle steps