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