Moon tears

the widowed moon
revealed herself
through her
melancholic
veil of fog
her frozen
tears floated
in the air
to kiss
the cheeks
of oblivious
passengers
in the night
those kisses
the only
offering of comfort
she could afford
as the world
passed the
threshold of
autumn

Obit

sainthood is
like history
only agreed upon
by liars
love is like
blood
the river that
flows out of the heart
anyone can die
and everyone does
but anyone can
fuck up
so don't act like
everyone doesn't
just because
they die

Requiem

on a throne
of bones
she waits
her beheaded
love leans
in her lap
trickling down
her stone legs
faded petals
of her glory days
the bitter wind
licking her feet
and tossing
those old glories
out into the street
her abandoned
children wander
beyond the
wilderness of words
to be their own
ball and chains
for what all
the blood was shed
can no longer
be said
the words have
been trodden
into the mud
and her tears
tear the skies
from their
somber gray
into darkened night
away from sanity
away from her
heart of liberty
away from
her radiant light

Religion

I wake up
I piss and shower
and dress
I let the dogs out
I pack a lunch
and I eat
I drive
I check the blind spot
in traffic and
pull a muscle
I work and play
and try not to mix
the two, unsuccessfully
I clean and 
pull a muscle
I turn on the TV
I watch and learn
what life is not
I stand up
and pull a muscle
I eat and eat
and eat, probably some more
I write what won't
be read
I then paint instead
I cook, then clean
some more
and pull a muscle
I put my barefoot
on the bare ground
I complain about hating
I love to complain
and I live to love
I lay down with
my husband
We pray then kiss
I pet our dogs
I watch TV
knowing what life is not
I fall asleep, eventually

Face space

faces spilled out
on counter tops
from glasses too
full of liquids
or clumsy hands
faces pool in
the liquid lineage
held by distance
on that expanse
they unfurl in
wrinkled napkins
or paper towels
gazing upon the
world before them
this recognition
in an unrealized
divination

The fluff dreams are made of

my dreams choose
caskets as places
to lay their heads
and slumber soundly
leaving me in the night
I wonder what they
are dreaming of
when they've left me
out in the cold night
do they take flight
as I enjoy so much to do
deep in REM
do they fall off
giant cliffs only
to be suddenly shaken
awake with racing hearts
do they try to run
only to find the more
they try the less they can
or maybe they don't at all
dream that is
when they slumber
leaving me in the night
to row my boat
down a stream
as we were taught
for life is but a dream

The thin line

we'll climb
the thin line
of smoke
that rises
from out
of the waves
it will lead
us into the
starry dark
where distance
has forgotten
both speed
and distance
so we can
peer into
the past

we'll climb
the thin line
of smoke
that rises
from out
of the waters
which have
given us this
chance to find
ourselves and
each other
when we
have collided
with the matter
in hands
that have held us
beaten us
and led us
to ourselves and
each other

we'll climb
the thin line
of smoke
that rises
from our
burning bodies
the fires
that have
quenched
the ocean's
salty thirst
our blood
that has
dowsed the
warring flames
within stampeding
hearts and souls

Magissa

she walks columned lands
listening to the brittle fingers
of her friends snap and break
under the weight of her feet

the cold touches not her skin
as it has already embraced
the faint beating of her heart

her hair is a continuous current
with the bitter breezes of night
when she lifts from the earth
to soar through the dark air

the cold touches not her face
as it has already taken hold of
the faint memories of her mind

they come to her for help
when their prayers are empty
they bar her with iron chains
when their guilt is thirsty

the flame touches not her bones
as she is a stream in the woods
the tears from an infant's eye



- for Dixie

The chest

these things were taken
by unseen hands
they always mention
what was given up
an offering
the sacrifice
but these things
were taken
and they'll never
be again
the memory of
sound sleeping
and sane thinking
and being pleased
by being at ease
no more
someone has
slammed shut
that door
as all reasoning
has flowed away
all peace sits in rot
logic in ruin and decay
images can't be unseen
knowledge is always known
and what is kept locked
in the chest in the room
at the end of the hall
up the stairs of the house
at the end of the road
no one travels any longer
should have always
stayed locked in the chest
in the room in the house
at the end of the road
no one travels any longer

Sean

silence was a
companion he sought
and the constant
conversation he found
in the quiet pacified
the biting storm
that raged in his mind
Sean hated his voice
finding the words
he found regretful
at best and his speech
was a journey down
a root laced pebble
strewn crooked path

the winged imp on
his left shoulder
whispered into
people's ears
convincing them
Sean held himself
higher than them
in his silent state
while the feathered
fiend on his right
whispered into
Sean's own ear
convincing him
he had nothing
worth to say

but Sean soon
started speaking
more and more to
his silent friend
and did his very
own convincing
leaving the two
whispering devils
to starve without him
while he drifted
away so deathly quiet

First frost

the bricks still emit
the scorch of summer sun
in their burnt hue
embers of bonfires
the same that still
burn in the night sky
licking and savoring the dark
the same dark
that creeps into these hours
when solar rays drown
in the distant earthly horizon
surrendering to the cold
the same cold
that creeps into the bones
of withered elder trees
and silken youthful blooms
that linger until the bitter kiss
the same kiss
that stills the pulse
silents the arias in the air
and blackens and grays
these autumn days

Demon wings

the remains of the rain
reflect the somber eve
after a day of gray
my face ebbs in ripples
as filtered light ponders
the expression on my face
I am only halfway here
I am merely halfway there
as liquid draws the line
and darkness draws the soul
I've hungered for the light
to lead me off into the night
but it keeps me lingering
in the shallow dull twilight
the dark can take my soul
into the depths of its cave
but it feeds me just enough
to save me from the grave
the puddles mimic pain
a numbing bitter pill
the loss of demon wings
no halo beyond the veil

Return ticket

it was something booked
long ago
probably with the first breath
in his lungs
which is why it's difficult now
to let go
because it was forgotten about
after all this time
but reminders come back up
to flag us down
and let us know when
it's time to let go
when breaths become less
and hearts grow too big
and bones are too full of life
and looks are now somber
when they weren't
only a week or two ago
during that time
when we had forgotten
when we didn't know
that life is booked with
a return ticket
and departure can be
so much sooner
than we know

Affliction

these halls stall me
it's difficult to pass
as my words should be
my steps
but the words
are pigeons
flying away
from this pedestrian
and I see them
settle and coo
further down the corridor
but if I approach them
I lose them
as they take flight
once again

Melting suns

on the aching
worn branches
where gold finches still dance
to pluck a seed or two
and monarchs sail pass
swallowtails filling their coffers
with rich nectar drink
melts faces of the sun
in all their dripping glory
whether they are worn wax
receding from the flame
so ravenous for a wick
or better the oils slathered
on clowns that have had their day
the colors do run as Hades
pulls the fair colors of Persephone
down into his dark empty pits

Word

the writer becomes
the words written
the page the writer's flesh
the ink the writer's blood
the quill the writer's life
that pierces the flesh
and draws the blood
across the blank plain
of the writer's existence
the narrative the writer's mind
exposed from the depths
each novel a mere chapter
each poetic verse a mere breath
exposed from the depths
that long for light
that beg for the writer to write

Ashen words

incinerated words
fell upon the grass blades
as hopeless Roman soldiers
falling upon their swords
the refuse of speech
was the color of the sky
in the cold morning dew
the curtains still pulled
the veil still thick
for any parting rays of dawn
it was still the crickets
to serenade the ticking clock
as cicadas yet slumbered
the written word bellowed
forth from the belly of flame
the heat licked and savored
each and every letter and line
and the release blanketed
the grass swimming in dew
fragile fragments laid
unwavering in the stillness
of the growing light
remnants of lovely lips
kissed farewell the night

Datura candelabras

faded petal hue
drips in the gloaming
as datura lights
its white candelabra
for sweet serenade
in lunar basking
sweet nectar sipping
the humble moth's tasking
a laudanum laden cup
offered freely
to ready prisoners
of nocturnal sight
briskly through chilling eve
into the dark eternal night
lacy wings from silky skirts
ravenous fiends from
devilish desserts
pulses skip under
moon laced dreams
who knocks upon the chest
in this tormenting rest
what pours from the cup
the moth savors and beholds
the blood of an ancient god
is what the moth unfolds
in whispers and breaths and awes
the dark softly sings
from datura candelabras

Pacifica

his ashes are upon the sand
where waves lap
and leave behind
bodies from the deep
these summoned offerings
the waves lay at my feet
as the musty salty sweet
rises in the air
from currents crashing
on water worn stones
the soft sand under my feet
a gentle place for us to sleep
where ends are met
to both ocean and to land
where broken bodies
break upon the standing stones
and souls stir in the constant
current of ebbing eternity
and ashes drift out to sea

Jellyfish reflections

float in his eyes

as we lay mangled

in each others arms

our hearts are horses

that have passed 

the finish line

and their hooves

have slowed

our skin the grass

in morning sun

wet and warm

and drying

our breath is incense

offered to the god

we briefly met

just moments before

this moment

I watch jellyfish reflections 

float in his eyes

Lily melody

the lilies lift aloft
in the morning light
an offering of their incense
to the almighty sky
the unfurling of their petals
are the opening of temple doors
as honey flows in rivers
in the slight breeze of the morn
and messengers of the gods
race to temple doors
to restore the divinity of the day
and take with them the offering
the lilies gladly give away
the golden dust heaped full
in their velvet satchel purse
and sweet libation drops
to satisfy the buzzing thirst
the petals pour into the air
a cloud of divine awakening
where lost are the poet's words
and the bard holds muted praise
lifted is the lily melody
in silent scented summer days

The silent fiend

some silent fiend

sits on the edge of the bed

to watch me slumber

its mere presence

adulterates the images

that parade across

the back of my eyelids

and it's content to

sprinkle me with 

the Sandman's sand

laced with its own flavor

a flavor to cause me

to battle my demons

with shards of porcelain

I shatter with my

fear and anger

these all too frequent

demons that dish out

a taste of hell

with their repetitive

torturous spell

they weave before my eyes

and my only sword

are my very words

to deliver me from this dark

"I will not" echoes in the room

as the fiend is vanquished

with first light

Rain and leaves

I'd rather listen

to the rain on the window

the drops have more

important things to say

than anything on TV

and their song

is sweeter on the glass

and in the humming

of the wind

I'd rather watch

the floating and

fleeting dance of leaves 

in Fall or bees in Spring

or even birds in love

than anything on TV

and their dance

is genuine and true

through skies both

gray and blue

End of June

it was a setting sail
into a dry ocean
with a fiery course
through windy days
and still nights
dark nights filled
with screaming toads
and owls that longed
for the absent rain
even scavenging canines
yelled for it to return
it was a jumping off
into spicy evenings
when sagebrush sighed
at the end of the day
at the end of the heat
and sunflower musk
stirred in the cooling air
it was the time to
watch gourd vines
wind through the grass
much more slowly
than their serpentine kin
time to spot the devil's claw
holding its silky bloom
behind a cloud of
almost deadly perfume
it was the waiting
between storms rolling
in from the west
for lighting strikes
as threatening and
nerve shaking as
the strike of a rattler
in the tall bluestem
for the rain that
the nightly screams
summoned in the dark

Sky shatter

yellowing of the day
will the sky
break away
to let the dark
seep in
indigo blues gray
in the withering eve
as empress hues
take their leave
then the sky shatters
leaving the gleaming
glass dust
scattered across
the silent abyss
and wonder slowly
turns in spacious spirals
until light seals up
the mystery
behind the blue veil

Lure of leaf

whispering of the green

softly in the breeze

a breath upon the cheek

turning the head with ease

the blades upon the grass

lay down their warring path

calls the maiden trees

softly in the breeze

their melodic siren song

fills the feathery throng

and slips down swaying salix strings

to fill the pool with rings

the music in the air

seems to come from over there

yet when there does become here

the music moves far from near

'tis a dancing deer

as it moves far from near

through the foxfire gloam

when fireflies dare to roam

The well

the well remains

a deep dim reflection

of the sky above

its eye watches

time drag through

the sky above

its wet pupil

waits for more 

moisture to leak

from the sky above

its only holy hope

for existence is

from the sky above

after buckets dip

deeper into the well

and it recedes further

into the cold abyss

and faces who peer

into the eye of the well

have come and gone

passing by to either

heaven or hell

the soulful eye

deep in the ground

still watches its lover

in the sky above

Hope

she draws her dreams

on the sidewalks

for people to tread upon

and the only ones

who gaze into

her imagination

splattered on the pavement

are the bowing sunflowers

at the end of August

the rains carry the pigments​

of her drawn out figments

into the gutters

making way for more

Coin spin

such a busy world

all because they

want what they

don't have already

is that the signal

blaring out from

the molten core

to go and get

there's always

something more

and the more

always has a price

for there is no free

in this blood soaked

earthly economy

just ask the bird

that ate the worm

that ate the leaf

that ate the earth

and the air and sun

the coin spins 

until it's spent

Vizzitor

a fly danced

on the letters

at my fingertips

its moves made

me pause my own

it seemed to

revel in the

oiled keys

as it did 

as it pleased

it came to rest

above the asterisk 

to bathe its wings

and its eyes

then flew off

suddenly

such the way

of flies

Braindrops

a trickle 

from the ears

a sprinkle

from the nose

a light mist

from the eyes

as the storm

within brews

the turning 

twisted thoughts

funnel into 

a verbal downburst

and lays flat

all in the way

with the straight line

windy bellow

out the mouth

thus beware the signs

of braindrops

The bird

blackbird with his

robin blue smile

perched on the eave

of a house no

longer a home

his gluttonous grin

is the bow 

in the roof line

as the sky gleams

off the ocean depths

found in his feathers

his call 

the chill of night

dancing in his

malicious stare

as he writes ​out

his devious deeds

in the air with his beak

Ashen arms

you held me in
your bare arms
within gray skies
wet with vacant thoughts
and barren time
you held me
when there
was no more
need for tears
no longing
for lips to meet
no urge to
reach out
for touch
in pain or
in joy
as all the blood
had dried
all the air
had blown away
and vacancy
was our company

Dandies

let's wash our bodies

of this soot

that billows 

from our neighbor's fire

though we stand

confused and naked

in the growing grass

the spying sun

that filters through

the passing clouds

warms and dries us

she sips of you

and is tipsy too

when she tickles

with her velvet coat

I laugh and lose my cap

as it blows away in the wind

Minutes after midnight

those prophetic patterns
run deep in his soul
they climb through
the ladders of his DNA
and knock on his heart
in the minutes after
midnight
they point out
the young woman
who draws her dreams
on the sidewalk
for passersby to
tread upon
they indicate
the man
who waits by
the intersection
swallowing his smoke
as it his constant, yet only
friend
they single out
the laughing children
who will never be born
under soot cloud skies
that bleed what man has
made by destroying
what God has made
they turn to
the days beyond
thirsty lips of problems
the gnashing teeth of need
to days of silence
to days of depth
deeper than the images
caught in brief moments
when walking past
store windows
to seconds spent
as decades before
a setting sun that
won't surrender
to a suicidal slap
that breaks the shell
to be delivered
from this living hell
to wake up in those
minutes after midnight

Just the sip

sip of my cup

I have filled it for thee

please drown thine worries

upon thy bended knee

sip and sip again

from my shining chalice

surrender thine trembles

to my pleasure palace

quench your thirst

on my fountain for thee

I even have a cushion

for thy bended knee

come hither I plead

for thee to drink thine fill

lap up my sweet nectar

give in to my will

sip of my cup

it awaits your warm lips

please come and drink

before it spills or drips

April prayer

spare the salt shaker
oh lord

this spring has been

over seasoned

and your children

long to play in color

instead of sulk

in monochrome ice

we tire of the flake

we tire of the freeze

oh lord please

put down the salt shaker

let us see the reason

for this season

to bud, to bloom

to break free from sleep

and awake from wintry horror

to hear the little birds cheep

and the crickets squeak

spare us the crunch of snow

under tires and feet

EOS

thirty minutes
before the end
of a shift
is a pill taken
slowly
a dipping
of the toe
into a warm
soothing bath
the first steps
of a walk
through the woods
on a crisp
October eve
a harvest of
elderberries
and seeing the
wine in the small
dark violet
filled fruit

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

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

Sower's dream

seeds turn to leaves

in the sower's dream

out of the soil

emerges the realized

hope from within the shell

buds blossom and bloom

with all the colors

displayed in the rain

after a tempest

tendrils reach and curl

as stretching cats and dogs

awaking from naps

roots dig down and deep

with ravenous fervor

and thoughts of thirst

fields are full

with swaying stems

and forests fill

with the lullaby

of creaking boughs

breezes put adrift

cotton clouds of seeds

that turn to leaves

in the sower's dream

Us

they flow through themselves

never being entirely of oneself

even while appearing to be

as their whole ebbs and

flows into other states of being

they always return to be as one

in whatever form they choose

or their surroundings choose for them

they cannot escape their entirety

and no matter how adulterated

they might become while away

they return to be as pure as 

they were when they left

they are storms of wrath

and pools of serenity

they are mists of despondence

they are fountains of laughter

they are tickling drops

and steams of comfort

they are quenching and flooding

and drowning

they are us

Grandpa

dust of those
western roads
still rests in
his lungs
where it tells
its tall tales
to at least seven
decades of
tobacco soot

its favorite is
about Betty Lou
who can bring
most anyone out
of their blues
with her smile

and how the
cloudless prairie sky
has nothing on
the hue of her eyes

and how Mr. Williams
took the words
right out of his mouth
when she was cooking

and how she is still
willing to help out anyone
needing it even though
she needs it more
these days

and how she helped
him the most
pretty near all
his life and still
does simply by
being there

guess not all the tales
dust has to tell
are tall ones

Snow angels

a tree scratched sky
lies above us
in the dismal gray
of the approaching
February eve
flakes that fell
yesterday fuse
together under
the pressure of
our exhausted bodies
those dark tears
in the sky
those sprawling arms
those sharp and
silent frozen vipers
only slightly sway
above the bodies
we left behind

The smell of wet paper

ink bled when
the pen sailed through
the puddled tears
collecting on a piece
of notebook paper
and some of her last
words were muddled
and hard to discern
their intent were as
clear as the August day
she decided not to
any longer
the kick of the stool
was her last choice
the strength of the
rope was her last hope
and the August wind
took away her last breath

Hybrid

drops mingle
as two alpha pythons
passing one another
ready to start consuming
the other at its tail

swirls the double helix
in a cyclonic fury
found on the plains
as strands either
chase or bolt in
their joint dance

these opposing poles
in their magnetic clasp
of one being with
two battling bloods
how even his
atoms are repulsed
by each other

though heaven
has wept and hell has
erupted within his
trembling veins
the stars still
tethered to his
corpse keep him
upon this earth

Tears of the ancients

it shall fall on mankind
the tears of the ancients
and they will be found
upon the dry earth left
behind and in the waters
tainted by hatred and
in the very air of greed

the tears of the ancients
will bear witness to the
downfall of mankind
and will be a tidal wave
through their numbers
and will lead emptiness
throughout the lands

no weapon mankind
will find to raise against
this enemy and shall
long for the tears to
have never flown from
their frozen bearers
yet the ancients shall
not harbor any pity

Melt the gods

stone hearts
rolling in those
immortal breasts
icy judgment
so precise
unflinching words
in uninhibited wrath
wide eyed
soul-piercing stares
of the statuesque
accusers and blamers
in this moment
of eternity

their frozen
disapproval loses
its balance
on those infamous scales
their stone hearts
are met with
feather and wedge
their wide eyed
stares tear and
flow as rivers
to the seas
when a mother
hugs her child
when a community
embraces its own
when a nation
feeds its hungry
when humanity
is humane

Arbor adore

my gods are trees

they visit me

in nocturnal whims

of the mind

their massive trunks

dressed in layered bark

are the columns

of their own great temples

and they lay me

in their coiled roots

where their May drift

cotton has collected

I lazily watch the dance

of emerald gleam

adorning their lofty crowns

and hearing their

heartbeat within my chest

I know that I

was one of them

Winter words

how these words

I've bitten into

are no longer the

luscious fruit

I used to savor

it's a bitter

soliloquy

and the very

sound of my voice

echoes shrill cries

throughout the chasms

of my body

yet I still speak

still I voice and

keep wiggling

the loose tooth

as blood trickles

down my throat

and pain reminds

me of life

Pre meditation

cavernous and empty

save for a few

dusty wooden chests

to the side

under some old

moth eaten tarps

I think they may

be filled with old songs

the chests

not the tarps

those type of melodies

that are better served

as bicycle wheels

hopefully the lids

are on tight