Portal

white arch in bleaching
sun, harsh light filling
chalky void that echoes
on a vast and vacant
languishing ocean

to touch is to pull
the years of banshee
winds onto fingertips
and look at ancient
accumulation in
present fingertips

the brush off of ages
under the arch of layers
steps through time
that climb the remnant
the remains to remind
that fish once flew
through bowing grass

they were once then
what leaping deer are now
but at the arch the layers
are all the same
where human hands can
retreat in horror in
feeling the flaky scales
in tracing the dagger teeth
of mariner monstrosities
that always knew hunger

pale portal of powder stone
to pass through layers
and leave the given behind

Beyond the temple star

the land surrendered you
in solstice rays
to journey far
beyond the temple star
it gave you up
released you from
its pale limestone arms
for you to walk
on the distant horizon
on the waves of hues
receding into the sky
follow the bear
and its hunter there
into the depths
of a blackened sea
that glimmers before all
beyond the temple star

Through the glass

I turned my back to the room
the scene outside
through the glass
took me in
in the drear and gray
the clouds were in a hurry
too much like their
human counterparts
never really knowing what's
waiting down the path

through the glass
I watched the trees scratch
the sky in the dragging
turn of the earth
their limbs ebbed and flowed
too much like their
seaweed counterparts
never really knowing what's
waiting in the ensuing wave

through the glass
the tortuous wind echoed
in great gasps it thundered
as if tearing open a storm
and ripping a deluge out
from its belly
it whisked frozen dust across
shining pavement
below a breaking cloud-stuffed sky
the trees had scratched
and I wondered when this wind would end

Solstice

the hands stole you away
in the frozen dark
with their cut glass grip
and icy pulse
they pulled you out into the cold
onto the moonlit blanket
where you surrendered
where your heart slowed
to the beat of the falling snow
the longest night took you
into its depths
beyond feeling the winter wind
passing through your body
beyond the stinging frost
beyond the whispers escaping
from your numb lips
your words fell in the silence
and didn't fly to their intended ears

the hands held you down
in the frozen dark
to hold you to your fate
within the hollows of the night
while the angels looked away

In wholly night

a path to a star
the desire to go
far beyond our
own burning sun

what sits atop
an evergreen mount
to beckon or tease
through the trees

a future bright
burning in the dark
that light may grow
and shine evermore

these heralds drift
through the night
with foreign voice
a known lullaby

in coldest of airs
a flickering flame
a vessel of star
from further than far

what will be born
the hope so near
far beyond our
own burning sun

what burns there
in coldest of airs
in unseen sight
in wholly night

Birthday butter

art was disgusting to her
when it wasted materials
that could be used elsewhere
to help the poor or
feed the hungry
or when it lost all
practicality and only
took up space needed
for something more

she realized this while
cutting a stick of butter
and reflected on a film
she saw of Tibetan monks
sculpting butter into
elaborate figures and
designs to celebrate the
birth of Lord Buddha
which made her think
of all the energy spent in
creating the same beauty
to celebrate the birth of
her Lord Jesus Christ

supposedly saviors she
thought to herself while
cutting the butter into
the flour for a pie crust
putting aside her project
she spied her pill box
she remembered she forgot
and popped open the cell
for the day, spilling the pills
into her cupped palm
the tiniest pill contained
both heaven and hell in
its minute chemical cosmos
but no nirvana was found there

Snow prints

these tracks

this script of travel

whose part to play

in returning

or never leaving 

in the first place

what has been gained

gleaned from these prints

left in the fallen snow

that lead off

and away

into the cold

why do they wish

for something that way

when here is okay 

at least indifferent

when all the world

is the same white

who calls to them

beckons in the frozen veil

memoirs of warmth

written on the ground

in their path

the remains

where is their home

when sweeps the wind

and the script is gone

will the story linger

teeter til the end of time

and then...

Wormwood's blink

the quiet chaos in the cosmos
fell to earth
stretched out upon the stones
the cold grey flesh

with motionless words amidst
the forest of brittle bones
the sky so white
it consumed the land

in unspoken form
the listless chaos blinked
when the world was torn
and the moon burned

a torch in the night
fell to earth
bathed in the silver seas
until none were left

feather words flew both
day and through the night
mocking birds were
they in fiery flight

their kiss upon a cheek
melting, pooling
upon the cold numb stones
offering for the grey flesh

the dying angel's pulse
fell to earth
winds sweeping frozen ash
over the pointless stones

incinerated words crumble
a powdery language waits
for tears, or rain, or lustful drool
the x in the equation

while the dazed chaos
sits in the forest of bones
takes a drag and exhales
"Damn, I missed it"

A firry perspective

their gnarled hands hunted

through the snowy night

tearing through the silent air

to sink their blade into

their unknowing prey

still, the victim standing

blind to the nearing threat

as the savage beasts crept

out of view with drawn blade

a sudden swing for metal

to savor the victim's limbs

and sweep after sweep

the ax sung in the silent air

until the final groan 

and fall of the victim there

onto the frozen ground

dragged away into the night

the gnarled hands patted 

the heads of their offspring's

children upon returning 

with the victim from the silent air

eyes gazed at the sight

on that cold December night

the body propped up in the room

in the candle light and calm

as the gnarled hands sang

O Tannenbaum

Wars we've worn

those wars we've worn
the claw marks lovers
wear on their backs
the pain of seemingly
crowded atoms in
space minuscule in
the echoing hollows of space

but what is shared or
fought over more often
is the fleeting wink of
a cat sitting at the window
a collision between
raindrops and pavement
a moment that adulterates
in pools of maimed memories

and the winks and
collisions and moments
are too numerous even
for those fingers that
sit and count infinite
and still we wear our
wars for grains of sand
which can never be held
in any one hand

Snow and window

spittle of frozen elders
dribbles down the cold
cheeks of the window
the glass remembers its
burning liquid youth
and fondly reminisces
while it sags in the
weathered sashes

the bones creak in
the walls and ceiling
as the building sighs
in age and cold and pain
northern nightmares
pierce the skin as
harpoons of Inuit
whalers dive deep
through ice shelves

the invisible beasts
leap from limb to limb
in the trees overhead
and rush the ones
that line the lane that
leads to the fields and
the fading horizon

Sown seeds

in porous earth the seeds have been sown

a winter wait to see what will grow

the chosen fruit not normally sought

to so easily ripen, too easily rot

the will will wait within the ground

in the freeze and shell be bound

a patience must for the time we wait

'til life emerges through a warmer gate

which leaves will pierce an April sigh

will they offer offense or be an ally

will their tendrils invade to creep and choke

a bane to all of what was spoke

will their buds blossom and be many

will their fruit differ to nourish plenty

the seeds are sown, the deed is done

time is fleeting in the southern sun

Bee a thought

if thoughts were bees
the hives would all be empty
that sit upon their vulturous shoulders
peering out into the desolate sea
they've created in their honeyless lives
with their empty hives

the monsters and bears
have licked the bowl clean
and demand more and more

down you paint your face
before the inflated giants
who radiate with chemical smiles

oily cake is all they serve
at their red born banquets
of which hogs will have none

what they won't sweep under
the rug or waves of  the sea
all they've milked of bee pee

they cheer their army of marionettes
into public squares or out their orifice
to overlook what now is naught
so soon the death of bees
the death of thought

Dear November

In case you didn't remember,
it's after Halloween.
We should have thrown out
all the rotten pumpkins by now.
It appears, however, that all
those October fears have
bled into your time
and still wildly roam free.

In case you didn't remember,
your time is for gathering.
It's for making food that
has been anticipated
during all the other months.
It's for taking stock in
what makes life worth living.
In other words,
it's for thanks giving.

In case you didn't remember,
those nightmares
should be behind you.
The ghosts and cobwebs
should've been all swept away.
We need to make room for
turkeys and cranberries,
even presents for Christmas day.

In case you didn't remember,
get over it November.

Boom!

it's a churning magma
that restless burn that steals sleep
a relentless grinding stone
whose friction steadily
raps at the door of rage
biding for Vesuvius
to silence Pompeiish bickering
hoping for those atoms
to split again, and again
and then...
the smoke standing tall
the collapse of the wave
the drain of the red
from the cast iron tub
the scattered lives
the motionless knives
the opening of the door
and exiting
the exhale

After these words

we've hung a mobile of blades
over our future's crib
just hope the strings our strong
rest easy though under
those suspended swords
as terror and danger
and pain and agony always
lay at the foot of the bed
or under it
we knew this early on
when we signed on
to this fucked up party
some call life
others won't admit to it
while still others have
snorted all the snow and
already jumped
out the window
these words may ramble on
as this journey so often does
over paved and muddy roads alike
through smoke filled days
and crystal clear nights
only after we've finished
can we begin again
only after we've
squirmed at the sour taste
of disgust and displeasure
can we revel in sweet honey
if there's any left
so break out your remedies
and swallow them down
the lights have already been
turned off
and we wait in the dark

Face of fear

don't close your eyes
don't turn away
all the horrors
are on display
the dismal phantoms
fill the sky
to gray the hue
in your eye
the ghouls cackle
up in their towers
always seeking to
add to their powers
the tempest plagues
have uprooted homes
and left forests of
skeletons and bones
ravenous vampires
bite desperate arms
leaving bodies behind
their faded charms
hairy beasts roam
stealing away innocence
and escape the prison cells
due to indifference
pestilence pours forth
from the public tongue
deadly division devours
both the old and young
ancient demons stir
in their restless hate
for bloodshed and war
they can no longer wait
don't close your eyes
don't turn away
these frights are here
and now everyday

l'amour de la reaper

there's no escaping
the greatest pull
that's been tugging
the heart strings
since the first cry
of birth

who waits for us
all our lives in
patient silence and
perhaps whispers
from time to time
in this

who calls to us
all our lives from
the shadow's edge
to make us ask
to question this
purpose

who yearns for us
to surrender all
to blindly follow
into the shadow's
edge and further
beyond

no lover's heart
seeks you more
never a louder
rapping at the door
with last breath
than death

The dimmer glow

the dimmer glow
rests beyond obscure intrusions
into the physical psyche
those moments
that can't be staring you
in the eyes
and yet they are just
beyond the surface
of the mirror's glass
when days are done
when heat wanes
when light succumbs to
the black abyss
just beyond the blue heavens
the dimmer glow
radiates in near infinite numbers
held within the past
in memories that
fall from trees in evening breeze
and rest in faded
sepia tone casks
just beyond their glory hues
the dimmer glow grasps
onto desperate waves
in aging brains
in burning rains
that catch street lights
in their paths
and hold the dimmer glow
in their clouds
just beyond the ceiling
of cityscapes

His knowledge

his fingers bore no nails
and he smelled of the musty
realm he crept out of from
behind the wooden bookshelf

moonlight shared in his
pale gray flesh that gleamed
between the shadows cast
by stark and soulless window panes

he arched over my body
and turned dark as the night
from which he fell out of
behind the wooden bookshelf

his breath was a silent fog
that enveloped my throat
seizing the air from my lungs
and freezing any movement

his snarl and bearing teeth
were hell fire upon my cheek
a sulfurous kiss from his world
behind the wooden bookshelf

his tongue tasted the saline
cascades flowing from my eyes
it was a flame tasting the energy
of the dark, the unknown, the fear

I watched from a nearby corner
when he sank his dagger teeth in
and I grasped the stone wall that ran
behind the wooden bookshelf

his body pounced on mine
the lurches flickered in the dark
he savored every bite of my flesh
as he trembled in horrific delight

I grew colder and number there
in seeing him devour what was left
and slowly crept as he had crept from
behind the wooden bookshelf

he didn't seem to notice or care
as I neared where I had laid before
beside him I stood and stared
at blood soaked bones and linen

he finished, belched and rose
the moon met his bloody gray flesh
passing through me, he returned to
his world behind the wooden bookshelf

Eyed

eye know

eye see

everything

all those events

that make people

squirm in their seats

sitting before someone

whose known to have

done something that

makes them squirm 

in their seats

eye know

eye see

all those things

violent hands stained

red with guilty blood lust

reaching deep into the physical

to pull that maimed psychotic rabbit

out of the forgotten chaos all the eyes

still dance in every single night

to look down upon a people

frantic when a fragment

of their roots surfaces

in black and white

headlines

eye know

eye watch

how others look

upon how others act upon

their bubbling bodies of chemicals

and triggers and choices to pull those

triggers and jab those blades and 

dose those poisons in public

or in secret but never really

for in deepest of depths

and darkest of skies

amidst the chaos

stirs the pool

of eyes

Were I a wolf

the growling behind me
the snarling breath
on my neck
the jagged piercing
of a jaw full of fangs
the heated adrenaline
coursing through my veins

the beast who knew me
when I took my first breath
the beast who lingers
by my side until death

the tidal waves of rage
the words exploding
with shrapnel
the boiling blood
within this furnace
the stabbing glares
in their hateful pureness

the beast who knows me
in the darkness and deed
the beast who follows
until it chooses to lead

the vengeful thirst
the bottomless well
to drink from
the constant wound
wailing in the night
the sleepless phantoms
rising from the blight

the beast who'll know me
the taste of my blood and soul
the beast who's with me
even when the moon's not full

Night visit

not a hellish host
nor a pantheon of pain
savoring demons
but just one
lonely imp yearning
for a bite
into misery

it first scampered
down the hall
and clung to the
door frame with
its claws digging
into the wood

it then bolted under
the bed where
it started to dig
through springs
and foam and other
mattress mess
until it reached the pillow

it soon sank
its teeth into hair
and scalp and skull
gulping all it could
and crawled into the brain

it nestled there
pulling on the tangled
veins and cords
and relished the warm
bed within the head

its host was jerked
from sleep with
screams of tormenting
pressure as the imp
reclined with its feet
thrust behind the eyes
and the constant gnashing
of the imp's sharp teeth
clinched the poor host's
temples tight and bound

the strike of one
then two, three and four
were decades in this
pit of pain the imp so
savored deep within
only when the strike
of seven when the light
shown down from heaven
did the imp screech in fear
and fled from the aching,
marred and afflicted head

Neo-zombs

the mindless masses
of blank stares reflecting
blank faces staring at
blank pages while
flipping through the
book of this machine

'tis a dreamish world
fuzzy round the edges
while the barks and bites
snip at their heels
but too numb to feel
too drowsy to care
too zombielicious
these earthly vampires

drinking fluoridic
sugar coated cocktails
the big gulps no less
never to say no to more
they've latched on
to their monstrous
mother's teats to suck,
suck, suckle her dry and gray

huzzah to the beasts
that meander and sway
through the torn up corridors
of this barbed wire dream
and gnaw and chew and
feast on the flies they catch
that feed on the fecal
heaps they leave in their wake
for all of this 'tis a
simple cannibalistic ponder
'tis true when they
say absinthe makes the
heart grow fonder

Cadaver

I felt the wings of the flies
the vibrating bits of film
on the backs of opportunists
their master cracked the whip
over their heads in thunder
as I made my bed in mud
their dance over my flesh
were constant tides in the
coming and going and taking
when the sun had rose and
set again, I laid still
slowly I was carried away
by all the tiny feet and fangs
by all the things that cry
out in the dark and shadows
the young flies tore through
my skin with their ravenous
appetites and thirst for blood
the beetles and grubs feasted
on my once hidden organs
now exposed and dispersing
the canine teeth and stabbing
beaks were invited all too soon
and broken bits I became
my left hand dragged off
after being severed at the wrist
every joint became a challenge
for gnawing teeth and
crushing, starving jaws
once my tissues had been
taken and my bones were
yellow hollowed out husks
the sun stole the color of
my lingering hair and
bleached my bones dry
and rains and trees conspired
in taking the memory of me
by splattering my leftovers
with mud and blanketing
them with fallen leaves

The bare woods

the year sighs
the trees strip
the darkness grows
the clock ticks
and the veil runs thin
through the bare woods

where each step echoes
in sloshing crackle leaves
and shattered twigs
in dusk of the twilight
of the year the light wanes
and winds roar
and bodies ache and
creak just as their
naked counterparts
swaying in the bare woods

retreats the light and
the life that burned bright
just weeks before
of vivid hues that drip
off limb and bough to
puddle on the faded grass
the skin wears thin
for those in the bare woods

faces gray and ashen lay
among silken strands
and broken hands who
held the heat and day
creeps the cold on spider
legs to spin the web and
bound its prey in stiffness
pain, in frozen rain that clings
to flesh in the bare woods

Pooled

the pool, a reflection
as black as blood
in the full moon light
it puddled there
in the midnight air
on the ground
without a sound
no time for a gasp
to quick the strike
sudden, from behind
ceasing the cry
blinding the eye
to know whom it sees
within the pool

Movement of trees

they only choose to move

when the persistent winds

persuade them to

and when the heat has

drank its fill of any

remaining drops of life

and when the wind hurls

insults through July

into August

they only lazily toss

about like tails

of napping cats

in the afternoon

yet when the world

turns too fast in turning

seasons when cold

and heat are restless lovers

beneath the sheets

they are the ladies losing

lace handkerchiefs in

all the fashionable colors

and when the cold

penetrates the soil to

tell the worms it's time

to sleep and dream

they haven't a care

to move at all

but when the tempest

roars through the 

evening skies in thundering

splendor and shock

they humbly bow low

to the bellow of the breeze

this the movement of trees

Choiceless

heart defective lips
the scalpel blade to slice
indifferent of blood
seeping
leaking
adulterating the life
left scarred and maimed

what's said is sowed
into the soil of the soul
and will expand
growng
flowing
pouring in behind
eyes that have no voice

now all sealed shut
the window within window
rattling in the wind
aching
breaking
giving in eventually
to the unrelenting pain

shock soon follows
as words shatter in the cold
and left is the shell
fading
trading
leaving it behind
to reach for the divine

The written world

Tweet

twas a bird of a different call
some voice unheard of
off behind or between an
unseen building perch

its song a toss of
colored scarves exploding
from some firework wand
to vibrantly, boisterously say,
"Hey baby, over here"

at least in the rapturing
written bird words floating
in the early morning air
that is to say, and was

to some distant feathery
ear waiting in a similar
behind or between unseen
building perch across a
sea of pavement and tar

Nameless

never was I here
never shall be
longing for a breath
a voice, a call, a turn
of head to stop and see
never was a stone
to stay and state
here was I
to verify, here I be
least what's left of me
they've all closed
their eyes and drifted
off into mirky skies
and do not see me here
for no one lingers still
to say they knew me
to remember my steps
in my path in my way
no one left to say
I was here

Stake

procession of feet
marching fury set aflame
by boiling fear
the ignorant hysteria
dressed in hateful sneer

once friends or
at least fellow citizens
now cry for blood
for melting flesh
for death and all the rest

blank the stare
now my soul has left
a shell only rides
to that spot
where thirsty roots
sip convicted blood

my flesh numb
within leaving daylight
only memories
cry to me
sewing by the hearth
smell of wet earth

I cannot hear
will not even listen
to their cries
I leave them in silence
to their lust for violence

I am elsewhere
inside the heart of you
you took me
under the waxing moon
under ancient fateful stars

I am your altar
on which to reach beyond
this current madness
the sacrifice
I gladly give to you
when my time is through

For I know more
than they will ever want
for you showed me
from the sky
all of what's below
the soon and now and long ago

they bound me now
with ropes to soon burn away
and free I shall be
to join you
from this I shall awake
and leave behind what's at stake

Here's why

T. Profile a despicable cad
never much cared for him
disproportionately tipsy
scowling brow and smug grin

then E. Belly plays victim
riving in hunger then pain
having a knife in his back
from the villainous P. Brain

Miss Wrist and Madame Hip
creak and groan in the cold
whereas N. Lips are too shy
aged P. U. Feet are too bold

nobody seems to recognize
what O. Heart really wants
abandoning dreams and
hopes and long senseless hunts

the group of adolescent
fingers only annoy S. Cranium
and U. R. Glutes are to all as
radioactive as uranium

so it is posed why in
the world so much hate and fear
the reason is within the self
the root of war feeds here

Turned

only until that day I never knew

the little glory you really held

for you always shone bright

in front of me, in front of all

that was always your way 

to catch the view of every eye

to glimmer for every passerby

who might pay you some care

but for me that time has passed

and I will neither stop nor stare

your yellow song haunts me none

and I no longer see you as the sun

those joys have now withered from view

since the day you turned away

Break

walking back across
the frozen tar
a river Styx in
its own right
light blinded me
but I heard a
familiar sound
calling from the south

I could hear the
song of pistons
struggle with their
task at hand
I could hear my
own bones being
fed to those metal
teeth and gnashed
and torn to bits
I could hear the
slicing of my
body the cutting
of my arms the
breaking of my bread

that song sung
me back to my
vehicle in where
I reclined and
pondered the many
patterns of the
waves of water
above me in the sky

Feardom

the boogieman still
locks the nations up at night
the something underneath
the bed, the sudden noise
in the dark, the could be
might be, dreadful possibility
wears the key to the irons
that shackle us to dominion

of course they know each other
well, kin once removed but
then rejoined at the hips
to grow and loom in
the shadow of the moon
and as the thief in the night
to tear away a facade
a mere paper thin layer
to make the wolf a sheep
and a want a necessity
betting their illusion would
convince us all to
bow down, hand over,
and do their bidding

let the bet ride though
makeup eventually wears off
and people may tire
of a hand up their backside
power is only possible if
it is given and wealth only
exists because it's considered so

The driving of oneself

someone else drove me
home the other day
I wasn't there for
the depressing of the
brake in front of red lights
nor for the acceleration
for the greens and even
I think the yellows
I was too preoccupied
by a too talkative grip
describing an ice pick
or perhaps even an ax
merely a suggestion of
such an instrument driven
into the left side of my skull
at a 45 degree angle
slicing into the back of my eye

someone else drove me
down the streets to home
while I waited with my
hand clutching the lips
of that over talkative grip
with its stabbing whispers
my hair was combed by
the traffic breeze as my
absent head rested on palm
to wrist to elbow through
the windows when that grip
would find itself speechless

Dog

somber eyes most time
and most days spent
in half sleep and chase
or half sleep and sound
until sound wins the wake
and jolted back and
bounding off the couch
to whatever the source
of the barking sound

if not sound then scent
a wretched little imp
who cracks the whip
and teases and taunts
through blades of grass
through rabbit haunts
or plated food or
crinkle crackle of any
old plastic bag in which
case scent and sound
do-si-do to intensify
the thrill, the prospect

the opposite of when
melted butter fur pools
in its heavy weight
and heat upon comforter
to tuck in and pin the
sleeping neighbor within
the cover and sheet

the opposite of when
canine potential halts
with focus and unnatural
patience while man
follies in brushing and
grooming a spirit meant
for sweat and mud

the opposite of when
the mere sound of the
deep snoring breath and
touch of the shiny smooth
coat can lure one into
their own state of half sleep

Bodies

a hairline crack perhaps
or something deeper
a cruel wound suffered
in a frozen moment to
thaw and freeze again
to inch into and within
the wall withheld

the wall must fall
it must always fail
in holding in that
which was never
meant to stay within

thus the pitcher
poured not from lip
but from failing foot
and water seeped out
and puddled nearby
and pushed its way
over tabletop and...

lingers, it all lingers
still in the stillness
the frozen moment
that spurred it all
from the very start
and its life is the
mere ebbing of the
pool that was not
to be withheld within
the failing wall

Five years ago

the ladder waits
rising out of an
island out of a field
where you climbed
one night
to see how far
it might rise

before you knew
how high you
had climbed
the stars spied
you in the dark

you stopped once
or maybe twice
to catch your breath
and peered out
over corn and
roads and city
lights and the ocean
you once knew

the stars came
closer to ask you
where you were
climbing to

you mentioned
something about
destination unknown
and kept climbing
into the night sky
where you could
finally become
the everything you
were before you
started that climb

Of times around

in the grass, languid and laid

bodies showered with sun

bleached torsos stark in

conclusion and consequence

sordid eyes slowly roll

to meet and pant and chat

the head holes greet one

another indifferently as

in life so too now in this

the slap, whether on which

pair of cheeks, the result

yet the same in chiming with

that early morning crow

to pass from sleep to wake or

however the sequence flows

out of the brain, out of those

indifferent rolling head holes

the blackbirds find so tasty

from bloody battlefields and

sweaty bedrooms and musty 

caves to windswept cliffs and

saturated depths and any ole 

locale worth coming round for

to lay down a bet or more

and lose the copper on a race

with a train, the sterling on

a needle of tar, or even the 

gold on a fight with those

indifferent rolling head holes

the blackbirds find so tasty

and the addicts line back up

as if the 382nd time will do

in these shoes or hooves or

damn deep roots diving down

the must can be questioned but

the need never answered in 

pondering sun circles and 

disappearing clouds from

the grass littered with those

indifferent rolling head holes

the blackbirds find so tasty

Storming night

encroaching on sleep

treading on dreams

this invader of rem

that scurries through

the night air unseen

heat waves that licked

the day clean now

raise a torrent off

in the western distance

those waves keep

eyelids that wish to

shut from doing so

those gateways left

ajar in the sky glide

across the tasseled fields

in thrashing fashion

restless, both eyes

and storms in the dark

sky veined and marbled

in electric blue and light

in wet and heat and cold

Mass

round the roots down
to boiling stone
the bath of time
the bath unknown
it washes away
all iniquity if such
a belief suits thee
but it carries on
to the next and again
and so on until
the very last end
a wash, a life,
a filth or more
as we all ebb and
flow from the shore
but is there ever
a time to cease
is there ever a
moment of release
it all seems to
wind round a coil
up from the mud and
back down in the soil
perhaps its only just
a rhythmic pulse
and it's all driven
with a cosmic convulse
each life that is
a blink of an eye
to peer further into
chaos and the divine
so it has been
and so it must be
to belong to existence
to be chained to a tree
besides the mass of what
is found in deed and thought
what must there be
of what there is not

Looks like rain

when a frond friend
falls in the wind
the fern becomes an
urn on the mantle

a time when zephyrs
pepper the thirsty dirt
Satan's own sweat swelters
claiming the heat is ample

cicadas shucked shells
grasp onto slender spent stems
these beacons bellow
in the sun as amber gems

wind ever reaps the seeds
chucking them on dry crust
at most to roast, this
the way the wind condemns

yet dark clouds hark now
of ending pain with rain
gray slithers over the day
in chaotic hypnotic thunder

all is lost to water lust
longing for sips with arid lips
first moments, then minutes
as wet falls in liquid wonder

You. Should. Know.

eyes of the abysmal void
free-falling into the darkened
journey of night, when
then the sun turns its back on us
and alone with all the others
who travel there, out there
the void of stars and dust
and iron clods, and hidden
in those unending eyes
where beings merge
and know the mysteries that
cut us into these shapes
we now wear and drag
across this whirling surface
this face that peers into
depths of dagger states
where wailing and gnashing
of teeth so biblical serene
the scene of existence for
matter in this state, we
bleed and tear ourselves apart
the art of seeding the earth
with words and dreams
of extraterrestrial things
born in the eyes of want
to see what might or very
well could be, the hope
the endeavor of those eyes

Flat line

that straight, flat line don't mean a thing
it's just a line on that beeping machine
just a long, loud beep that's plain annoying

it can't tell me where or when I should go
those are things only someone else knows
I'd rather stay here than where the wind blows

there are too many smiles I would miss
too many hands to grasp, lips to kiss
and too many of those moments to list

I think I'll linger here a little longer
just until these here feel a bit stronger
when the tears stop is when I'll wander

that machine can't tell me my fate
I'll know when to go, but I choose to wait
it's not time for me to open that gate

I'm still needed here in the now
until my kin catch on to knowing how
life goes on after I have taken my bow

screw that machine and its straight line
that constant tone is so damn asinine
I'll choose my departure date and time

That night

a breath so cold in the heated night

a whisper so warm to melt the ice

the moon so low to touch its face

the moment too quick

the fool so out of pace

and the time lingers still

in the aching, beating pulse

when shadows danced with light

across your face that night

Paper Thin Men

gathering all unto themselves
of rare and worthless pricey things
that shine, that glare and gleam
the gems, necklaces and rings

a cache unto themselves
for ends unbeknownst en masse
yet secrets slither under doors
igniting into bonfires at last

all of this unto themselves
the hoggish hoard kept within
behind illusion's own grandeur
and a fleet of paper thin men

what words held unto themselves
blatant deceptions from the crown
while they march their armies on
and on straight into the ground

all the fuss unto themselves
for pompous pride and regard
to conjure past those days of old
and bend thy knee to "Me Lard"

all of us unto themselves
behind the flag, apple pie and amen
a great dream, yet only dreamt
'tis the way of the paper thin men

Pen pathogen

I may be writing this anywhere
from the next seat on the plane
the crowded theater's back row
the middle of the mall's food court

wouldn't matter the locale
the second pew over at church
the penny slots at the casino
any little place will do nicely

and the more I write the better
you could say for the circulation
as the heart drums its little beat
to pump those juices through

the shining ink slithers out
a river of blood on faded flesh
the ink of ages with its fateful kiss
to adulterate fear with the eventual

yet people seem more frightened
from the sounding sneezing achoo
little did they know it's more subtle
in the whispering scratches of a pen

oh but why, but why is the cry
why anyone would write this end
the destruction of all those lives
for the silence of all those cries

for the muzzling of machines
the snuffing out of intrusive lights
the break down of booming bombs
the relinquish of anger and of hate

also what better venue than this
than the written word of mankind
dictating and torturing through time
and now the obol for the lips

let this be our suicide note
as we've written it again and again
while this pen bleeds for us
it exhales our demising pathogen

Silencing

silencing, the
slow dance passing
in and out of
waking dawn and
dying eve

silencing, when
colors full in bloom
wilt and fade
into ages yellowed
and grey

silencing, once
booming expressive
voices screech to
halting speechless
pondering sighs

silencing, this
choking floundering
stumble from
moment to memory
to pause

silencing, in
cementing fluidity
of April rains
for still December
glaring glass

silencing, when
all those silly garbs
are shed and
left in windy fields
and winding lanes...

the unseen remains

Of sun and moon

the sun is a cad

licking anyone he can

and releases in

earthly combustion

gotta light, he does

making it burn so good

the sun is a bore

so the world ripped

her face off

and drowned in

the dark ocean waves

blanket of currents

gently rocked her sleep

in the lullaby of ages

in whispers so cold

in words of nothing

as the boy dreams

of bloody revelry

on the nightly whims

in fear and delight

so smooth the moon

beams caress and kiss

Sanota's children

great mother mystery
your children are blind
they have no memory
of their days in the sun

great mother mystery
you've eaten their eyes
they play in the darkness
until their living is done

we whisper Sanota
your lovely name on our lips
it escapes those who think
they know you better, yet

great mother mystery
your children are deaf
they lack the listening
to hear behind the truth

great mother mystery
you've tasted their ears
they've been fed everything
and are too full for proof

we invoke Sanota
your sweet name on our tongues
it escapes the logical not
fathoming chances, yet

great mother mystery
your children are mute
they choose to choke on
their words and their spit

great mother mystery
you've sewed up their mouths
they serve in their silence
in sties of ignorance and shit

Dark centered sons

those late days of June

dry faces spackled with heat
creaking the whistling
whirling beat down fins
pumps the wet to the cracks
in the shade of this shape
rampant through the sifting
sand that ebbs and flows
across the silver sea of sage

those top heavy sons
in pride and boasting youth
sons of the southern wind
ablaze in those simmer days
they peer through verde collars
and tempt their calling beaus
in dapper velvet fashion
sweet sips their song
deep within their furry chest

those dark centered sons
sticky in sappy sweat
as tiny feet tickle their limbs
sweet sustenance this sweet
this green sun laden flesh
they writhe in the tempests
they batter and trash in their
saturated orgies with the sky
and burn in August drought

The list is lost

the list is lost
of all hoping for naught
all dreadful tears
all nightmare brand fears
of all hours waking
moments spent faking
all lustful ambitions
release of inhibitions

the reaper has gone
all fields lay long
no more seed to sow
no more roots will grow
all winds hush their words
songs cease in the birds
the earth stops the turn
both to freeze and to burn

the sky shuts its eyes
blind to the other skies
all of them peering in the dark
all of them bright and stark
some of them still aglow
most of them burnt out long ago
in the deep they glisten
their light merely fiction

this space stained with stones
a listless floating bed of bones
when all is returned
all bridges are burned
all recedes into itself
back to the nucleus of the cell
into the chaos and unknown
where the tiny seed was sown

Beyond the crevice

crevice, cracked stone
the earth pulling up its
skirt to lure wanderers
into its unknown depths

shadow hugs tightly
the rocky innards of
hollowed chamber, of
time-eaten space

room meager and low
unless fungus would
shrink a body to vermin
size, a then be castle

in that smaller stature
one would have the key
to the tiny door hidden
at the back of the space

a darker shadow awaits
just beyond that hatch
pouring further into stone
into the lost and suppressed

slithers the craggy tunnel
where serpentine jolts had
hewn their cryptic trails
during primeval wanderings

they, the squids of soil
with their timeless striking
tentacle reach, have left
this path, this beaten course

which turns to take to
trick what's lost, what's
left in the deep, dank,
dismal dark abode of these

and heat and cold swirl
into each passage, after
every twist the path lays
in front of searching souls

and toes are eager to recede
for relation of a corpse state
sinks in suddenly, yet pursuit
whips the feet further on

darkness lightens to green
phosphorescent glow, a dream
tucked within a nightmare or
what else dwells in this hell

moist minerals merge with
stark life of fungi fire light
an eerie calm in the heart
of suspense and silent secrets

relief, be it brief, in glowing
walls, 'til dismal light exposes
movement just out of sight
beyond the reach of green

further down another way
past clusters of the fungus
reflections blink not once,
nor twice, but many are they

pulse echoes in the ears
in the muffled corridors of
forgotten silence, breath
halts, clutching the instant

movement shatters the ease
of the minute light, surge of
despair strikes in the rush of
shrieks and blinking reflections

Wildfire

what you've burned
and surrendered to the
flames licking the night

soot for shadows left
on dusty roads, the grid
laid over a barren land

the earth only bearing
those who can bear most
anything or anyone or...

what you've burned
in the hordes that march
across the grass and stone

smoke for held breaths
in deflated dreams, rising
to contaminate the infinite dark

a taciturn sky blankly
gazing on tattered fires of
the past or present or...

what you've burned
with words and looks
with dormant action

allowing it to feed
on what's left, those
remnants of the cold

bones and flesh bleached
by the sun and time to
feed the old or new or...

Body

that piece of paper
I've scribbled on
I've folded
I've creased
I've erased

that paper is wrinkled
that paper is torn
it is stained with skin
oil and coffee drops
and the ink has bled
and pooled and dried

that piece of paper
I've used up
I've lost
I've rediscovered
I've endured

the paper is aged
the paper is yellowed
it is stained with sins
and waking nightmares
and the words have smudged
and darkened and faded

Life is loss

life is loss

loss of yesterday with its

childhood and youth

loss of evenings drowned in 

gin and vermouth

loss of weight from

the sickly wasting away

loss of warmth and glow

as night consumes day

loss of those both long ago

and those a moment before

loss of pain we welcome

and the joy we choose to ignore

loss of colored canvases

that fade and wither to gray

loss of sparks of interest

and desires once craved

life is loss

loss of skin cells, electrons

and other particles

loss of hopes and dreams

and other carnivals

loss of shirt and house

and of skin and bone

loss of the surrounding 

world that once was known

loss of perceptions that

keep eyes from seeing

loss of sense of self and

definition of being

loss of the endless skies

with their soaring birds

loss of breath and air

and whispers with their words

What may be

warmth
sun shines
blue background
now and then breeze
prancing through the air
shiny cottonwood leaves
shutter, shake and flash
bird bending bough
flies away
into
blue

sky
biding
float of fluff
soaring seed silks
drifting on a breeze
away from shiny leaves
down from heaven heights
down from tree crown
floating low
into
earth

Rooster Roaster Roller Coaster

tickets please for
your freakiest show
more than just your
mind I plan to blow

don't have to wait 'til
sundown or dark
so park your amusement
in my amusement park

ride my rooster roaster
roller coaster
gonna make you scream
as I pull you closer

ride my rooster roaster
roller coaster
if you got the gun
I've got your holster

spin round and round
on my tilt-a-whirl
I'll lick your lolli
with the rainbow swirl

cruise my Ferris wheel
going up and down
paint your face white
like a freaky circus clown

ride my rooster roaster
roller coaster
the ride of you life
as I pull you closer

ride my rooster roaster
roller coaster
gonna make you scream
so says the poster

My old friend

it is always too easy
to be with you, my old friend
to slip into your
deep dark depths
to lose myself
in your sullen breaths
to meander through
your clouded corridors
with all the other pests

in you, my existence skips
a broken voice on
a moldy wax disc
bound to repeat itself
and greet you again, my old friend

it is always too easy
to stare into your cavernous eyes
to peer beyond the
desolation of stars
to inhale the fumes
of what molds and mars
to behold the affair
of what was then theirs
and what is now ours

in you, my heart is silent
and is frozen,
removed and violent
as I take comfort in the quiet
in the company of you, my old friend

RAV service

a box squawks
a tick tocks
in this setup
made up mimic room
I only wait for
them to pamper
the beast that feeds
on the blood of people
in somewhere once removed

a box squawks
about that blood
and the dinner plate
of the somewhere once removed
and the savage hogs
that shove their food around
that dinner plate
of that somewhere once removed
with their savage snorting snouts

May Day

a day in other words
screaming for help, for
aid, calling an SOS
least back in '89

with sun in the eyes
and gravel giving way
to a river of gray tar...
that one particular car

and a moment flows
into a bright warm glow
while a mother screams
and dares to do what
others won't to keep
a child's life in this world

a moment flows into
an ocean not so blue
where a child was digging
at an ant den just a few
years before this crash

the intersection beyond
the gravel and the tar
a cross of time and of space
of fateful and divine pace
that shrugs off accidents

where the child went
and what ventured back
what glows in that sky
the when, and where, and why

wakens to a piece of glass
pulled from scalp and hair
the shattered moment that
flowed into a bright warm glow
passing through the window
as Alice had done before
and many will do again

night skies have ever changed
and nonsense is more logical
chaos has even lost its charm
this crash did little harm

Gully-washed desert

the faucet has no tap
it seems, outside the window
'cept for the tapping tap
that raps upon the window pane

the tap has no faucet
it seems, inside the window
turned too tight for leaks
of any drips or spills

Roar of demons

of spiders spinning their aqua webbing

the bowl darkens in their murky satin

of beastly clouds trampling the horizon

roar of demons threatens to flatten

of monstrous conspiracy in heavens above

the hellish electrical gnashing of teeth

of serpent strikes in venomous downpour

roar of demons fall on those beneath

of solar wane and spinning weather vane

the towering leviathans have taken form

of siren calls echoing in the shadowy halls

roar of demons soars throughout the storm

Twists

taproots of the blacken sky

their march, a route

in chaos kiss of dirt

and stones, the winds

their passion tears

through the fields

the same grass that

tickled their fancy

just the week before

with these passing tendrils

of the clouds, the land

before of the earthen

floor joins in the

vanishing whim

Floatin' 26

floatin' on four rubbers
down the number of an
age I used to be, I'd like to see
with a brain swimmin' in a sea
or drownin' there within
my slish-sloshin' skull

and though my brain may
be sippin' all the numbness
that it can, my eyes are
stranded in the desert lands
as they strain to keep
the open sign lights on
the ache in pain

pass the man who appears
to walk without a head
least that is what I saw
until I passed by him, instead
his look was draggin' on
the ground, that's what I found

floatin' on four rubbers
down a number that's one
greater than a square but one
less than a cube, they say it's true
though my blurry brain has
no way to think it through

the pills await a ways
down the street with ups
and downs through the town
but now I have to pause
for her and him, for both of them
they made the light flash above
'cause walkin' was their whim

floatin' on four rubbers
down a number of two
dozen plus two more, what a bore
but there's branches tearin' skies
flying lovers in bird guise
to please my eye... so very dry

Rush it, potatoes

pulled from their dark corner
of the house, their wild hair
drapes out of their paper houses

a small closet in the cool
basement is where they simmered
all trough the winter freeze

how they've waited for it
the taste of wet warming dirt
and feel of wriggling worms

the same creepy crawlers
who have lingered in the ice
after feasting on rotting leaves

and they would just as well
dine upon the rotten flesh
of these tubers from the dark

the wild hair is laid into
the trench, tentacles that mimic
the creepy crawling worms

tubers and worms and warmth
reunite in the earth, in the sun
and water soaks them through

Seed

he sleeps below the sheet of ice
the frozen sight
he claws at to mangle and destroy
his palms open
the adhesive cold holding him there
inevitable stare
into the sight he thrashes again
and again no avail
it is his torment in this icy hell
to face the fear
to dive further into the deepest pain
an acid bath
burns and stabs as the coldest rain
on bare flesh
what his body has been stripped of
his mind shaved
the scab ripped from his very soul
the clay shattered
pieces linger apart and left broken
in stinging frost
under the sheet of ice, sheet of cold

Daturated

Five minutes this morning

waiting with the other
turtles in their shells in the dark
in the cold of morning
to tarry as rabbit feet
arrived too soon
or just early enough

I, the eater watch
the texter, the smoker
and the makeup artist
carry on as we tarry
in the dark cold of morning

the texter's face
illuminated blue behind
a window glass and
maybe texting or
something else entirely
which may destroy
her name entirely

the smoker holds
her smoke at arm's length
that juts out a down
window glass and
mimics the shell she
tarries in as it puffs smoke
out its backside

the makeup artist
busies herself with
brushing her blush
with a swift blush brush
in the light of vanity
and her own looking glass
behind a window glass
for an absent audience

I, the eater savor spice
from the sausage buried
amidst an egg I ponder
what precisely is made of
and cheese of which I
question the same
and timidly sip the
boiled brew to open my eyes

first the texter departs
followed by the makeup artist
with I not far behind
while the smoker tarried
still on her break I suppose

Jargon jaunting: part amoeba

maybe a noble mobile quest
division beyond math
aye, be a global hopeful test
a bold fork in the path

so, be a truthful youthful spin
a hairline fracture shines
and we so fruitful useful twin
when lifeline shatters minds

dreams dreamt in a single cell
greener grass just beyond
gleams glint and mingle well
where more and hope is spawned

a rift, a fit, a split in fact
when one becomes cracked
twas always ayouba and amoeba you know
for atheyba got nothing to show

In his name

his name stares at me
from the bumper of the car
in front of me in traffic

a little known savior
to my life this time around
whose sandals were
that of a god's in the
many steps he took

his life too short
so full of many and
many more he never
met this time around

in the red light
his name stares at me
to remind me
it's not written on
any stagnant
moss-collecting stone
but instead speeds by
at seventy five

to remind me his
body doesn't lay
in the cold wet earth
but instead walks on
the Pacific and beyond

to remind me his
heart doesn't rest
but marches to its own
infectious rhythm
as it did and
always will do

his name stares at me
and this time around
I look into the eyes
of a savior I never knew

Corner sight at the light

mere skeletons
they walk the streets

her with the ever wet
dog inside her bones
shaking the relentless
drops out of its coat
to splatter, to collide
with the pavement

and him with the
ocean of rats swarming
though his veins
that throw his limbs
to and fro with their
ceaseless ebb and flow

mere skeletons
who garb themselves
in muck of once seas
that now are plowed
and sprayed and shat on

these mere skeletons
sheer their flesh
that catches the wind
and turns their world
from needle pulling smoke
into snort and swallow pills

mere skeletons
serve as their own wind mills

tiny bit of Spring

these April days
raise this outdoor lint
drifting without a breath in the air

here and there
the insectival specks
that gather, disperse, gather
a dance of warming

only these wee ones
with minuscule wings
or tiny stamens releasing
promise to the fates

the almost unseen dare
the most, the most to lose
perhaps their boast

Moscow

the howling wind
made us shutter
when we were two
blades among the
green that stretched
further than the

horizon after horizon
the thistle rolled and
bounced in the flat
and infinite emptiness
with the brutal beast
of torrent as cold
as its native Siberia
being its only

friend, to find
that other bent
and broken hollow
stem, which whistles
the same tune
out exposed and
bare in the barren
lot allotted to the

poor that have
poured out it all
and gather very little
in dust and sand
and scorching thirst
their search is gone
in zephyr flights
as they have already

found and lost
the box should read
for she knows she
can't hold on to the
picture frame forever
she can't always know
the neighbors' kids
names, let alone her own
or the other things
she has earnestly known
but she can listen
to the wind chime clang
in the sun, on the porch

Bold blues

bold, these blues
that bear the cold
that burst forth
in winter's hold

the bright and
brave starry eyes
who gaze off
in simple guise

wee, these ones
so short and low
hugging ground
to miss the blow

and in these
the striking hues
hope springs forth
from bold, these blues

March, in time

leaf squares off with
wrapper on the pavement
sparring like their robin
counterparts who
have returned with
the waxing daylight

through windows
I watch the blackbirds
that are really blue
in the right light
they ebb and flow
from tree top to
the lowly gutter
trickling with a drink
for them to sip from

though through windows
I watch these things
I see in front of me
the Monday before
when I was soothed
by the beating pulse
of an IV machine's pump
as it echoed through
a tube, the side bar
of a hospital bed

twas a mantra
laid upon my heart
chanting relief is
on its sweet way
and the tones of
the heartbeat and blood
pressure monitor sounded
the bells of mountain
temples within my psyche
signaling the end of
this superficial ritual

but the present slaps me
letting me know this
has passed and gone
and reminds me
to keep an eye on the
blackbirds that are really blue
as their tides will
pass away too

Unconscious shadows

those visions of last night
only seen in nocturnal sight
and the conversation I had spoke
within the dark before I woke

a spirit of earth
some see as mother of nature and nurture
I was to prove her existence
from a pile of her bones

the bones I had tossed to a hungry sink
only the night before

and this spirit threatened
the bare flesh of my chest
with obsidian claws of crow

from the anger of the roasted bird
I ate only the night before

there I was laid out
upon a primeval wooden table
and the spirit, with her
dark downy cloak and
abysmal eyes, lamented
for the loved ones I had lost

but I was weary of condolences
and tired of people telling me,
"I'm sorry for your loss"

I explained to her
they were never mine to begin with
for mine is not known in the language of love

Olive Branch Cem.

down dirt and gravel
heavy cloud of dust
dissipates in the wind
a field of stones rises
from the dip in the
wide thirsty stretch

abandoned to hellfire
summers and temps
close to what the
preachers tried to sell,
she lays in her box
for time continuum

she never was one to
sit and twiddle thumbs
there was too little time
to ponder, savor or rhyme
yet now time is her
only possession here

under the swaying grass
and passing leaps of deer
as fast as the Model A
her foot used to floor
down dirt and gravel
with a heavy cloud of dust

her neighbors in their own
the boxes marked by stone
with lives of constant change
starting with a crying birth
ending in the weeping earth
more laughter than the pain

the constant was the change
the storms with their wind
that stole away her soul
in a dark thunderous night
she now joins the chorus
that whispers in the wind:

"Here I'll stay and roots I'll be.

You go on and be the tree."

Your arms

your breath
the lullaby
good night
sweet dreams

your chest
the tide
ebb and flow
the lullaby

your arms
the warmth
melting pain
draining fret

your life
the tide
ebb and flow
through your arms

your heart
the drum
beating fast
idles slow

your arms
the tree
catches me
holding us

your words
the net
cast to sea
from the tide

your arms
the last
flowing tide
holding us

What ducks will say

shovelful after shovelful
to clear the patio and the pit
and the question mark back
remains after shaking snow
and ice from the iron cage

behavior of an older age
an age once I will be soon
where I can take the time
to ponder over such things
and look back at where I am

for now, paper is torn
to strips and laid over sticks
in the concave metal disc
as remaining snow waits
to melt and boil and fade

little flames flicker with
the striking of a match
and the wind whistles
through the paper tunnels
its love song for fire

the box of junk mail slowly
empties into the growing
heat and smoke, the pair
a paparazzi who will not
stay out of my face and breath

in avoiding their constant
attention, I look up and find
a scrambled flock of ducks
who sound of loose belts
on old cars speeding on by

their flight reminds me
to pause from my endeavor
to find more than feeding
a fire is happening in this
moment I choose to live

that I should stop and
see the ash from the flames
and how the winds scatter
black bits across the snow
in this small scaled backyard

to remember a larger scale
of the world I choose to
live in, the darkening snow
of a thawing sea, something
more to fight a war over

but I am only burning
the mail I didn't want so
I can clean the office for now
and go on with the day
I choose to live in now

Momentary mountains

reflections lay gleaming
and tired on the ground
where weathered stone
cups the light of the lingering day


remnants of the torrent
tearing through the skies
lay in a now silent eve
unmoving silk draped over stone


reservoirs from broken heat
are libations of miller moths
when suddenly the sun sinks
behind the horizon's momentary mountains

Eye sickles

it's the clouds
that keep the fangs around
the crystal clear
slowly dripping to the ground

some so sharp and thin
to pierce the heart,
to tear the skin

above the doors
the clouds keep them around
pointed daggers
slowly dripping to the ground

as angel wings hide the sun
they scoff in their
teetering possible fun

of when one might
decide not to stay around
and surrender the
slowly dripping to the ground

to collide with someone's head
to cause mischief,
surprise, and pain instead

that surely is why
the clouds keep them around
in their agonizing
slowly dripping to the ground

as angels hide the sun so well
I'd tell them all
to go straight to hell

for playing the odds
in keeping them around
and savoring  the
slowly dripping to the ground

Palm reading

Napping

savor of solace found

in the last breath before sleep

the forgotten image in

front of the heavy eyelids

the tiny bit of muffled

sound lingering on earlobes

before slipping into the

inevitable and unknown

 

and not knowing digs

down into depths of souls

with thirsty tyrannical roots

 

be it the first nap of a babe

the initial night terror

with the call of a banshee

tearing through the halls

to snap a parent out of bed

the tyrannical roots have

scattered their spores

throughout man's psyche

 

and not knowing infiltrates

the borders where now

no guard has their post

 

though it has been habit

day in and out, sun up and down

to slip into that other state

left behind our daily clothes

and stark we run through

the glare of both moon and stars

and dance on spider threads

dripping with the cold wake

of the next routine and hours

 

and not knowing simmers

on the back burner of brains

idle yet scheming yet biding

 

following the rabbit through

this habit of falling again and

again into the abysmal sea

where we don't see but feel

don't feel but sense as we

are the incense that burns away

a scent that fades from the air

to drift and wander off somewhere

 

and not knowing turns cold

when the idea of death dies

giving way to sleeping, then waking