pretty

Grimwald smiles and you'll die
defined, disagreeing and divine--
all sick and no sleep, pretty
empty rollers sprinkling
glass in the drying granite slushing in
the sleet,
all
deaf ears curled ivory
roads foreign salted with fresh bile and sweat,
foggy from the furthest reaches,
slipping through beach breaches back
to boats across a map-shorn shore, ailing
for atlantis and beyond,
echoing in seconds after
with regrets alternating against every
long gone fast buck borrowed, spent, and lost

growth apart

give them the world and they'll want to walk it. 
she knows there's something
sad in the logic of a sonnet,
measured, steady-motion rowing
ghosts of hopes from whispering lips
in the weathered rhymes of wintery wits
long since buried in crumbling halls
and forgotten like their fallen fathers.

mental states

sleeve-rolling in the morning,
all hours put off,
strumming infinity's strings.
like oil black hair,
we softly get long--
spines soaking in seltzer,
absorbing their weight,
feeling time in their designs
and space.

osaka

i'm looking forward to being incredibly happy
rising with the sun firmly on my boundary
trapped far from myself and searching for answers
in the hearts and eyes of the loves i'll be lost in, with
no wonderful tongue to know, lost, lost in the
cherry snow, black dark black on streets and trains,
eyes and hairs all matched the same,
all merry madness unfriendly and tame.
i'm looking forward to low expectations
nothing from no one that no one owes me,
unthinking free from the firm hand,
selfish at last, unfolding in the garden of
my own end. they won't have nixon to kick around anymore
(I'm nixon) here, where
i could never be glimpsed, let alone seen,
or ever known in that full capacity through which
they would have known my awesome glory. oh my dead end
self-contradictory android nation, programmed for destruction--
i'll sigh when i see it go, having learned and always known
what not a single person could ever see in wasted years not listening
to me.

mothers thrown off lightly tonight, without a second thought,
their power grown from milk consumed rejected by their healthy sons.
nothing known, by nothing, no one--empty at last, free of delusion.
i'm your disconnected anchor, sinking slowly, smiling,
i've given you that pride you have, and you wield it so capably--
i have no need to fight you, son, because you're still my child--
i'd have destroyed you at any time, if that's what you desired.
instead i'll bow and take my leave, from this sad scene with no worthy audience
to read into the truth and lies and balance of morality--
or who is true and who deluded, who's to say for sure--
all i know is that i don't mind, all i know is i can't care,
i'll exit left with credits kept, the aftermath laid bare

shade

no rest
for wild droves in love,
rebellion, petty, profiting
from half a world away--
the rest of us are wheat and
chaff, shifting, reaped and suffering,
or rooted where we stay.

electric giants

darn those dadwives and please
pass me the baguettes--
unsafely steered cold aftermath by
an old power saved
from consequence. armed
by feet firmly planted,
each emblazoned and laced in
odd cardboard formations
and  molded plexi.
so glad we took the subway,
so we shuffle huffle by--

lagging behind luggage handlers
staring at ceilings impatiently. dusted mirrors
licked clean by idle fingers--
listening to whispering
exhalations of smoke
beckon me to breathe with them,
swimming in the downstream breeze,
scattered ash infects free wind and
empties into streets.

journal

ugly breathes a smoke ring ,
it catches up to clouds curling in errant hairs
on the necks of leather-clad bad asses,
kicking shattered glass splattered across
faded spaces in the parking deck,
unlit and set apart in equal distances,
empty pages unlike unearthed journal entries