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

Terror of the rain

the raindrops feared

the talons

of the polar hawks

that flew in with

the Arctic tempest

and turned white

against the gray sky

their pebbled bodies

collected on the streets

and sidewalks

creating a beaded

memorial of their haste

but many grew wings

and floated through

the turbulent air

sticking to glass

and then giving into

their warmth

I could only sit and

watch through

the perspiration

on the window

of my ride

this terror of the rain

30

the sigh
of a workday
gone by
is still 30
minutes out
the impact with
the ground
and a falling
body from
the overpass
was less than
30 seconds
shit the weekend
is more than
30 hours from now
and daffodils
are at least 30
days away

Those that never were

were they ever
the mortar between
the bricks
what glued this
time with that
who fed the kings
when they were babes
who pushed scientists
to explore certain subjects
who tended the tree
that grew the apple
that fell on some one's head
those who labored for
wool that weaved an empire
or tended worms
to build a road of silk
what is built with
their bones
what is scattered
with their screams
what is held tightly
within their dreams
of those that never were

The house of again

relentless phantoms
who drag my eyelids
down over my windows
drawing the blinds
and draping the sheet
over my sleep
carefully carrying me
cradled to their bosom
and dropping me into
the dark well of dreams
of their screams
a night to awake
within their house
again and again
with its numerous rooms
and cavernous ceilings
and the dreadful attic
where they entertain
their guests and I
who see other worldly ways
and who they are
their ethereal bodies
rising from their beds
as though we have both
been beckoned to this plane
from our respective realms
and that I may hold
a message just as surely
as they bare one for me
taking me through the halls
a doorway is passed
out into the grounds
where though I don't see
I have seen heaven bloom
from the bare garden dirt
yet heaven now sleeps
in the bowels of hell
and we hurry to
a smaller house of the keeper
and one large room
with bookcase under lock and key
of which is given me
though the key is turned
I see neither my arm nor hand
and unburden the open drawer
of its numerous books
I flip through several bibles
as it was whispered something
may be in their pages
the last bible I find I begin
to flip through but stop
its weight grows heavy
and falls to the floor
bearing the word Sakurnz
I hold it no more