Distracted

Missed that ninth artery Sunday
Caught up in thought

Reflecting on the crooked tower
Seemed though it might bend over
and tip its receptor like a
gentleman's top hat in greeting

Surely it was a passing flight
torrid breath of the storm
leaving that pole acute

A meek and tall chimney sweep's
instrument remains erect
by the occasional road

The road taken that passed
the ninth artery Sunday
without ever knowing

Red went for nothing
Boxed circle meant nothing

Nor should it have when
there was no obstruction
no interference out of thought

Pulse jumped from the glance
in the mirror, reflection of the warning
Grin, puff of air soon followed

When they were joined

Republic

In proceeding to the
end of the land,
it was discovered
the drawbridge was up

Although it was posted,
the sight had to be seen

frustration, obstructed path,
delay, detour

Perhaps the backtracking
was neccesary
Perhaps it was needed
to see the sparks
collide with the passing pavement...
momentary fireworks
that were reflected at the end of the day
when reaching the end of the land

Self-fulfilling prognosis

Recitation, hopes in his performance run in a stream
of overused paint.  Too many layers, too many pricks
of stimulation and too much makeup on an aged and
tired actor deterioate the deception... it goes unseen.

Emotions lurking in shadows catch the light of day. 
Their vapors rise from a boiling vat, and their constant
tapping on his thin-skinned shoulder won't allow him closure.

They reach from behind to pull at the cords hanging
from his chest, ready to hurl him on the beach,
to be lost among the moist grains and salty laps.

Diversion is his alibi, until its bittersweet overrides
its sweetness, leaving poison on his lips.

He is not ready to be that one-eyed sharp instrument
thrown in the giant heap of cured vegetation grown
in the fields, hopeless for someone to find... nor is he
ready to be found.

Certainly he is to blame, as he sits at the table serving
his guests.  Long has he held this banquet and gobbled
and gorged. 

In delicate manipulation, he has contrived hollow satisfaction
and plays the part, being ignorant or choosing not to know that
the main course of the dinner is his heart.

In silent reclusion he revels, as he passes by admirers stoning
him with praises.  He graciously bows and performs,
continually dismissing progress and passes through phases.

No rest... no peace, anguished voices will not cease.

Memories carry daggers that mangle the present
and his empathy of the past continues to evolve,
which doesn’t allow access to the here and now,
as hindrances accumulate resulting in absent resolve.

Never mind his pitiful state... he’s content, for now.

On paths of long ago he abandoned deference, burying
the remains in a shallow grave and repeating his ancestors’
deeds... he has yet to return, retrieve and restore.

Meanwhile occupation of his time consists
of rutting around in shit, anticipating the shiny,
brass key but only finding small helpless globs of potential...

The larvae suit him, explaining his agitation,
as they sit atop the hill and bellow out insults,
judgments and fragmented puzzles
that fall short of comprehending ears.

Communication usually escapes those with wet wings,
as he cannot fly high enough to reach those soaring truths,
only to flap around, on the ground, where the lies are bound...
entangled in the mangled carpet of the turf’s roots,
there his words are bound.

What will correct his question mark posture...
what will draw him away from this focus?

The particular beating organ he holds in his palms,
he reads its story repetitiously as the shaman reads
the goat’s entrails, hoping for a better omen.
Give him a blue heron flying from a running course
of water or a snake on the road instead of those flies
that hover over his carcass.

Those messengers of Beelzebub are lured in
by his radiant, rank putrefaction.

He never once thought of himself as a pond in the pasture,
usually a tide, or a river, never that stagnant, algae rich,
cattle toilet out in the grass. Somehow, he found himself
looking at his own reflection in the green water,
as bloodsuckers from the air and under the surface latched on.

Standing in his own soiled discourse,
he raises his chalice of feral yearning and states,
“Cheers to that which doesn’t kill us...”

Someday he’ll be one strong son of a bitch.

Chautauqua

Bells tone their time
during the warped elliptical lap

Pulse is abruptly revived
from weeks of stale existence
Heart slapped across the face:
"WAKE UP! BARE AND LIVE!"

Lungs fill with trees' exhaust
in crisp, humid draws

Journey quickens to
leave the clasping cold behind
Shoes shuffle through
bleached leaves, grass

To trust your path

Dim spotlight guides
a journey into the dark west
Worn sheets hang
amidst the silver, black and blue

Torn clouds are the resulting emotions
of the confusing evening... torn

Seaweed, cigarette smoke
mingles and lingers on tastebuds
during the journey into the dark west

Intense pondering of the curious evening
joins Lana's lyrics as caffeine

Ten seconds late of departure
Ringing phone quits just before answered
Locked door remains shut no matter
how you jiggle the key

Long exhales keep sanity
keep going on the journey into the dark west

Dissection

Severed privacy bleeds onto 

the people's thirsty ears,

while intrusive blades

ravenously splay fleshy tissue

for the reveal all will revel in.

Knowledge from within

gushes forth in the ironized platelets

that splatter upon pale silent lips.

Unspoken words convey

every truth the slashing metal

discovers deep within,

behind cages of bones

and pulsating organs.

Nudity is only skin deep,

yet exposure knows no limits.

The steel thieves gnarl the pure form

of unceded being

to delve into salacious conversations

about their carnal quests.

Collapse

Creative forces unite,

constructing and refining substances,

both physical and other,

into objects of stature,

size, and persuasion.

In time, these objects adapt

to their surroundings

and evolve into new creations.

In time, these objects grow

beyond their former parameters

and initial limits they were given.

In time, these objects become

not necessarily more than what they were,

but  rather become victims of eternal plagiarism.

Realization of this leads many

to ends not suited to the original idea

behind their first genesis,

thus this enlightenment alludes to, 

yet circumvents their nirvana.

Slowly or suddenly disintegration

of the developed sense of self

rips the veil in the sanctuary

of legendary misconceptions and dreams.

Once clinging to that veil, 

the objects soon find themselves

in a free-fall of their perceived downfall,

as all their silken robes, thick furs,

delicate foliage, and thin membranes

are stripped from their current understandings.

Suspense

Bodies facing off in a simulated match

of brute oppositions deviously designed

to merge in an intricate, 

yet uniquely simple unity.

In many aspects,

domination ebbs and flows

as one reclines, 

awaiting the contact

of the other's approach.

A looming shift in self

hovers with the anticipation,

the surrender, and slight hesitation.

Mental spires crumble under the weight

of the advancing introduction,

of which neither know

the resulting combination of the pending action.

Possibilites of becoming lost,

immersing past conflicts, 

clinging to a life once known,

tarry in this moment of suspense.

Nor forget

Your presence is the
burning incense
that insidiously dances
with peacock fronds
and candlelight in the dark
Your truth is the
illusion that wholly vanishes
in the conversations
held deep within
the corridors of our essence
Your heart is the
pulse that shatters
notions of realistic views
and casts the pieces
to gnarling canines
You are the escaping glimpse
in a regretful reflection,
the scavenger's shrill cry
in the still coldness of night,
the blue heron perched
amongst the catalpa's abundant frills
Your hope is the
morphine drip
keeping my suicidal thoughts
from rupturing
my soul's thin shell
Your love is the
Gordian knot that I
have untied countless times
in singular company
and inebriation
You are the last words
flowing over my dying lips,
and the empty chalice
drawn from the Lethe