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.