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