Pillars

brittle are the branches
of the forest
of the tall skeletal trees
the white leather bark
bares the lack
of trust
and the saturation
of fear

the tall skeletal trees
hide behind
their gray barrels
their money masks
their churchy charms
their wind

they rattle their laws
in the ravenous tempests
the yellowed faded laws
that fall to the floor
to be trodden upon
until they are earth itself

the tall skeletal trees
that have a taste
for their own
bleached flesh
and impatiently wait
in the ravenous tempests
for one of their own
to fall
into the puddles of piss
they sip from

Conversation with a shapeshifter

I was shutting

the doors to

my optical cabinets

when a curious fellow

introduced himself

with a sharp and

malevolent grin

as I gazed upon him

I couldn't grasp

a clear image of

what his face might be

for with each ticking

of each second

on the clock down the hall

I was looking upon

a different face

his form would not

or maybe even could not

rest on one image

at first I was amused

with the wonder

of the fluid face

but tired soon

and began questioning,

"Who are you?"

"What do you want?"

"Why are you here

in all these various forms?"

then slowly yet abruptly

the fellow chose

to come to rest

upon a hideous sight

that very one mentioned

previously concerning the grin

and his eyes were large

dark blue empty circles

with his triangular teeth

shown gritted and full

while his words spilled

out from somewhere else

and his words more hideous

than his expression 

when he told me,

"I am you within"

Robin snow

this bit of chill

this bite of cold

the pale hand

not letting go

of the bare tree branches

this layer of fluff

it is just enough

to cover the green

so eager to spring

from thawing earthly beds

this here today

gone tomorrow snow

that reveals nights

and hides away

morsel crumbs from robins

Glass

we placed a glass

to separate us 

yet to view

what we no longer

wanted to be

a part of

still we have traded
this division

for a revision

of what is in

front of our eyes

for what we want

to see

leaving us blind

to reality

and numb to humanity

and looking through

a glass darkly

Cubicle

serpents arise

from the pit hole

in the corner of the cube

ascending from the

abysmal shadows

of the floor

they claim the shelf

for their own

devious deeds

coiling around the feet

of the two faces

staring blankly

into the space

of the cube

in dust

and wasted time

the serpents are still

and silent under

the gray horizon

waiting for the mouse

to move

Lodged in dreams

while searching 

for a story

in a rural field of

the astral plain I

drifted to last night

I happened upon

a secret society

of men who built

without nails

though the ceiling

of their lodge

was grinning with

an iron smile

and their members

were strangers

though I knew

one or two of them

but the leader

was invested to show

me their ways

and we left the lodge

into the sudden night

and pondered those

who may fly

through darkened skies

and I confessed I had

seen some before

as we watched remnants

of a flare

fall down upon

the grassy floor

yet waking had

other plans 

and grabbed my shoulder

to pull me from

the scene

though I longed for

and struggled to

remain in the dream

Gray day

a shadow bobs
atop the street light
some boasting crow
seemingly drunk
on the dismal gray
drizzly dreary day

drops bead on
the envious glass
wishing it could
be so fluid
in its transparent
reflections

only geese are
darker ash than
the clouds that
don't even bother
to show they are
there in the sky
but rather rain
on ducks who
dip themselves
in the nearby pond

Squirrel

he found comfort
in the slight vertigo
from the teetering
on two legs of
the stool with
uneven feet

it lured him
into its trance
enveloping him
with the moment
and severing ties
of his surroundings

he longed to be
the frisky squirrel
he spied between
the slots of
the dirty white blinds
in the vacant break room

though the wind
was harsh and
bearing knives of ice
he wished he had
the apparent freedom
the squirrel sprinted
through the wild
woods with

Mouthless man

slice of skin
in snow and ice
the fragment of glass
concealed in shadows
the sharpened edge
of frozen silica
separating flesh
flinging open the pale drapes
to reveal a river of crimson silk
spilling out onto the white of snow

the match strike
sulfur siren calling to
each pyromaniac
a lust for light and flame
for ravenous heat
in the dark of winter hearts
the black edged pages
of the fire's story
the rise of ashen embers
and smoke laced words
spoken in the chilled stale air

the spittle of the burn
descending upon the snowy sheet
laden with charcoal smudge
and sanguine splatter
the tattered tale
of the fire's feast
spread out at the feet
of the mouthless man