The longest night

 it's always Christmastime on the streets

the flashing red and green

on cold wet pavement

await the arrival of passing sleighs

full of presents going somewhere else

for someone else

yet spirits are merry

in the bottom of bottles

or rolled dollar bills

and magic's in the air

between puffs of smoke

and little crushed pills

but the needles don't sew

or mend worn out coats

flames flicker in makeshift hearths

to warm frozen hands

the warm glow keeping

the longest night at bay

until slumber calls

and the dreamer is tucked in

fresh fallen snow

a blanket to hush the harsh words

of the bitter northern wind

How will you use my bones

I've left them behind

whether I've forgotten them

or left them on purpose 

is for you to decide

but they're there

buried deep inside of you

not inside any soiled grave

or carved stone tomb

I gifted them to you

before you were born

whether they're a burdened curse

or blessed legacy 

is for you to decide

but they're there 

dancing deep inside

they can build ladders 

on which you can climb

to other times beyond plagues

they can be planted and grow forests

in which you can lose yourself in

away from disillusionment and tyrants

they can be used to beat drums

to revive the heartbeat inside this world

that is fading from all of our ears

they can build bridges that were always there

but just were hidden in a fog of difference 

they can be struck and ignite

and burn so very hot within

until they engulf not only you but it all

they can do most anything 

as they came from everyone that came before

but how you will use my bones

is for you to decide

Thieves in the night

 those who linger from the skies

angels of old who

bathe in both truth and lies

their eyes that freeze the soul

that steal the air and sound

in midnight lights 

and sights words fumble with

their chariots are the same 

that forgotten gods crashed

into the earth

the same that gave birth

to heavenly ascensions

and countless faces never found

after being printed on milk cartons

the stolen lives and celestial bribes

that crowns have banked

to say who exactly gets into heaven

heaven, they may name it

yet fires burn there in dark skies

these fires that know not no

will accept only their bidding

these wingless gods who fly

surely they know what's best

let time be the blade to their throats

let that be the test

Mask of cruelty

 cruelty grins

behind a mask of status

it gathers it children

unto itself

pacifying them with ideas

of independence and wealth

it leads them with a hollow carrot

pulled from its own barren garden

letting them play underneath

the suspended root

while holding a rusty cage

behind its back

a cage where it stores

the hearts of promise, generosity, and decency

from behind its crimson robes

stained with the bleeding poor it treads upon

it hides a withering frame 

of which is sustained by the attention 

of the hordes entertained by 

that hollow golden carrot

cruelty can only feed upon such recognition

it can only hide behind the glamor of wealth

and the idea that one can be completely free

from the rest in this life

without this fuel it would be exposed

stripped of its crimson clothing

and shown as the wretched coward

that it is

The fourth

 two elders sat playing chess

they knew in order for one to win

one of their kings would have to die

the goal in playing power

the role to play in order to devour

only one king will remain

only one king will have the say

and in this victory of the game

the board is left in a gory mess

with swords ran through rooks

decapitated knights and pawns

and even bishops and queens

lacquering the wood with blood

and what would be left of the court 

for the newly ruling king

would he have dismembered hands

serve him his chalice of wine

would drained torsos bow at his whim

and bring him tidings from his allies

what allies would come to him with open hands

and not bearing daggers behind their backs

for it all was a filthy battle fought

by the strategizing hands of the elders

who whispered dark and deadly words

into the ears of their pieces

and to all those who would eat up their lies

these foreign elders playing their game

on a land not of their own footsteps

but a land at least one of them would 

gladly have a remaining king rule

alas not even a village-sized blanket

could sop up all the victor's drool

Samhain man

  the elder of late October

wears robes of silver thistle leaves

with a serpentine gourd vine

tied round his bony waist

he's crowned with bare branches

that shade his long locks

of crimson amaranthine hair

his skin is course and crackled bark

of which lichens are akin to

his dark vacant eyes are chasms

one can fall into if not careful

while his grin is as sharp

as the first frosts in the 

presence of the dawn

he carries with him all the fruits

that have fallen, forgotten and not foraged

these are his orphaned children 

he comes to collect each year

to carry them safely into the long night of the year

but parents be wary to not leave 

your own children under the arms

of a tree with showering leaves 

or else along with the discarded fruit

they too will be carried off

by the elder of late October

Copper's weight

 the grave sings the same song

as the green woman by the sea

it eagerly calls to the tired and poor

it laps on the shores of huddles masses

yearning for freedom as icy waves

of northern waters lick ships in the night

it hungers for the wretched refuse

the homeless is its favorite target

and the tempest tossed, well they

are one of its greatest temptations

but that green woman by the sea

she possibly hides wings under her robe

for her song is one of deliverance

while the grave hymns indulgence

 each song pulls greatly on the human soul

one strumming the strings of fear

the other the chords of love

yet the notes mingle in the ear

but each distinctive melody rings clear

and each step must decide their way

and what another's life is worth

weighing the green woman's copper

against a bed of cold damp earth

Confirmation

in the steps one takes to the sea

those taken back to forgotten fins

and amoebas dreaming of the sky

time's hands momentarily pause

to tock their ticks and to count

a dozen or two down to one last second

this second when we watch Nero

beckon for Caligula's resurrection

the tears that will be shed will be

the blood of so many yet to come

spilled out on the pavement 

where barren lands give birth

to skin draped skeletons

these forgotten children

whom angels have abandoned

will only thirst for neglect

and only hunger for shadows

that hide them from themselves

they will wander through lies

that bellow forth from behind columns

and take flight in ravenous crows

these devious tempests will toss

Eden's offspring into the abyss

as Caligula's horrific glory

shines down from obelisk heights

Nero will be but a memory in

the geoluread dust contaminating 

the air and adulterating breath

stifling of the cries for justice will be

taken in the wind away from the asshats

that gobble their grisly suppers before

the horrific glory of the now risen Caligula

one by one truths will turn to stone

waiting their turns to be pulverized

by the scepter of Caligula's tongue

one by one every answer will be questioned

every star will fall from its celestial space

every tree shall fall, every speech will go unspoken

until darkness and silence shall robe Caligula

and strip Eden's offspring of everything 

The midnight window

 late night hours 

turn into the earliest minutes

street lights cast through

the barren arms of elm and ash

to their own litter that has gathered

in curbsides and near gaping grates

leading to darker depths

what's laid out through panes of glass

the most unassured possibilities

the still and silent chaos

biding yet lurking on the heels of the light

through this sheer semi liquid translucency 

that shivers in the harshness of October

this thin separation of the out and in

that keeps autumn frost from this skin

in entertaining insomnia as a bed fellow

eyes through windows wait out the dark

Mentis

 light escapes the mind

it gradually recedes from the corners

and bleakly stares through the windows

for briefer moments as the time passes

and what is this time anyway

a suggestion of what a moment should be

a bag full of coins spent at an accursed market

where you can never get fair value for the trade

and posted to your account are all these debts

you thought you had paid

for surely your age tells you that

but the year deceives you

it coerces a belief that you give into

that you are younger in the evening

than you started the day off at

yet the in-between matter, well as if that matters

for there may have been some faces that made sense

and others you might have known, once, at some point

but assurance is just as lacking as the receding light

just as lacking as what was said just before

light escapes the mind

Arboreal hexen

 the skeleton hands reach high in the sky

conjuring the time of the southern sun

to bid remind the calling of maggots

in the cadaveric corridors they hail from

to call forth the holding of breath

the pinching of pulse, the freezing green

that burns to blacken soot and withers gray

the ethereal remains tattered in the day

those hands rattle their charms in the nights

when blood red Mars in vengeful scorn

tears feathers from Mercury's wings

and casts them to the chilling ground

while Venus winks in morning calm

the great deceiver, he sings his song

that here is peace, here is rest

within his silent hollow chest

yet the children tear their eyes

from their sockets so they are blind

to see the knife at cattle throats

the heart that bleeds is the one that feeds

yet they use the very forks they feast with

to gouge their eyes and play the ignorance card

at a game no one in earthly robes ever wins

the skeleton hands clamber still

through howling winds and exhaustive frost

they waxen cold and drain their gold

into buried stores where yielding worms wait

for pooling regrets of graveside confessions

and for the ladies and gents they have yet to greet

Betrayal

 his words fell upon our ears

as the sun still falls upon the dancing grass

in the warmth of day

his words were once the wine in our cups

that slipped down our throats

in intoxicating heat

we would consume every verbal slip of his lips

the vibration of his voice would shake loose

all our cares, making our doubts slip off

the edge of the cliff into the sea of lost memories

and we would lay there in his resonance

succumbed to his breath upon our souls

we used to love every time his mouth moved

to bring about another bloom of celestial scent

yet those scents have escaped what was promised

all the hope has landed fear side up

the tender words of piercing truth has burnt with books

once glowing enlightenment now marches on

in an army of mindlessness with spoons sticking from its lips

the spoons that have fed it empty lies and hate

an army that has turned upon itself 

for it has nothing to fight but itself

and the words that flowed from his font of wisdom

may only be echoes in the shattered ashes that remain

that carry in the wind, to love each other

Within

underneath the billowing moon

the creeping shadows ever so subtly

steal away the lunar caress 

on your cool pale flesh

'tis not the darkness unto itself

that holds you still in silence

waiting to assure yourself

your heart will beat again

'tis not the the emptiness of the night

that freezes your soul to stone

a mere porcelain statue

to tarry in quiet fright

'tis not this moment of lack of light

that carries you off into corridors

you thought were locked away

so very very long ago

for you are simply enveloped 

in all of that you haven't known

when the dark nestles at your neck

and kisses those raising hairs

and you are slowly being drowned

in all those memories you've gained from pain

when misery was the tempest threat

and loss was drenching icy rain

these shrouded companions come calling

in the insomnious hours of weakened lives

they rap at your heart when joy has left

asking for the vacant place by the smoldering coals

'tis for you to choose to grab the key from the shelf

for you to reach for the brass doorknob in the moonlight

and rattle the key in the lock until it clicks

and you slowly turn the knob to open... the... door

Soley

 he lives in the small brick house

at the end of the road

at the edge of the forest

and at the next step to eternity

you may have seen him

ducking his head behind

a sign he carries on his path

that reads "Bless this mess"

for he has always believed

he was the wretch like me

and told his reflection it

every time he looked in the glass

he has begged many a traveler

a passer by of his cottage

to stop and sit and stay

offering his entire world

as meager the offering is

a simple trade for a friend

but none would stay

only some would stop

and fewer would sit

not due to the surroundings of his life

though bereft, his abode was clean

but it was that hollow jar 

he kept within his chest

that is what kept away the rest

without the sound of self drumming

the cold silence fell like daggers

on many a visitor's ears

keeping the wretch company

for his many years

Phaethon

 with winds to tear

the suns from the sky

stripping them of their azure sash

and hurling them to the rocks below

as faded moons look on and away

turning from the fallen glory

as the heavenly hosts did the same

on that fateful day for Lucifer

the only aid to the toppled suns

the wee messengers of the gods

who still fly and nestle 

in their golden breasts

to take with them the solar promise

the glimmering dust upon their hips

and wine of light their lips do sip

a kiss farewell of memory and time

this moment, this chance to take

and scatter seeds to the wind

The book of the dead

as we seek glory in angel halos
and in demon songs
with every little everyday task
in the work we shirk
the friends we help
the steps we take
the love we abandon
in each of these we write the book of the dead

we hold the pen in our breath
for every word we speak
and every sigh we seek
our judgments we lay down
as red carpet for others to tread upon
which has filled the world with
worn out red carpet
tis the binding of the book of the dead

our flesh is each page we carelessly flip through
with tears and rips and scribbles and highlights
to emphasize this and criminalize that
in the eternal sea of blank canvasses
yet to be praised or criticized
within the growing book of the dead

with the blood-stained ink we love to tell ourselves
we each write the greatest story ever known
not of great sacrifice or wealth and power
or justice for a great wrong
not any of these unto themselves
but all of these in their tangled bonds
because the greatest story is of I am you
and they are we in both love and hate
beyond all the trappings in this skin
and the fear of letting someone else within
these words that simply piece it all together
these are the final words of the book of the dead


-for Tracy

Note to self

he's that someone you ignore
the one that was created
from the muck on the bottom of your feet
from the dust of the road you've already traveled

he's anxious for attention
because you've shut him away
deep in the closet at the end of the hall
yet you still can hear the quiet rapping
the ever present tapping
on the back of your heart

you tell yourself that he can't help himself
that he was sourced from fear
he was raised from the depths of hate
that anger is his blood
and malice is his breath
and you shutter at his delights

you keep telling yourself he can't help himself
and you're right
only you can do that

Dam

the blank stare is a dam
with no emotion is how the day can go on
for behind the stark eyes
there's a teeming mess
a wriggling knot of serpentine memories
festering in each fleeting hour of the day
they are a puzzle of which no one
can decide where to start the unravel
and be it duty
the desire to continue
the wish to eat and keep eating
or simply keep warm inside
the blank stare must remain
the charade must progress
the gates that keep the mangled monster
of a soul from seeping out of its skin
must remain shut

The burn

the candle bleeds heavy
and pools at its feet
the flame ready to drown
in its own wax
its light ready to succumb
to the ravenous dark

the dwindling fire dances
a sporadic, tipsy waltz
where a one, two, three
can drop anyone to their knee
where the tiny hot hands
reach out beyond the wick
praying for acknowledgement
begging for unity
hoping for change
wishing that it doesn't
meet the same fate
as those many flames
that have come before
to be blown out
by an unobservant
passerby, to be
spat on by bigots
to be crushed between
two fingers moistened
with hate and disrespect

the dwindling fire,
my how it dances

Used to

the used to crumbles
a mere shell on it all
it had been a plastering of mud
the dried encasing
that protected the mundane from chaos
but all mud will dry
all mud will crack
and the used to becomes ever so fragile
so easy to shatter at any moment
or as it often does
is picked away at piece by piece
by the ravens of progression
in their ravenous appetites
for the shiny present
and their wings the color
of the unforgiving unknown
as each piece is plundered
the used to can grow new skin in time
in its reptilian virtues
but chaos can seep in so easily
when the shell shatters suddenly
with little time to renew its boundaries
bringing the routine to its knees
and begging for forgiveness
from the unforgiving unknown

March melt

rising from the progression into the north
the smells live again in wet earth
and mud is tracked in from the thaw
even dry grass caught within the paw
the branches swell with anxious sap
yet a little too soon to awake from their nap
and cold crow calls give way to larks
while morning sings again with robin barks
the frost still seals the soil's purse
but all in all it could be worse
as the solar dance moves midway
and winter night surrenders to summer day

Chandelier

I spoke my words
cast my spell
while piecing together
a sun of broken glass
so the light could seek you out
in the darkness that blanketed my soul

in the company of smoke and spirits
each fragile silica shard
cut through my flesh
as I bound them with serpentine wire

their cobalt crimson amber envious
translucency melded a chain
that tethered me to seeking you out
in the abyss we had fallen into
when the stars were young
and time was only a twinkle
in the eye of chaos

it was that chain bound by my words
that led me on the path
lit by the promise of you

Omar

he defined grandpa as
OshKosh overalls and cowboy boots
topped with a cap from the local Co-Op
and aftershave of Prince Albert

he defined grandpa as
a stoic face gazing out the picture window
interrupted at times by an ornery smile
and smoke-choked laughter

he defined grandpa as
tending after peach trees and
horses and cattle all the while knowing
care reaps the best rewards
and showing his grandchildren
lessons through experience so as
they'd never touch an electric fence

he defined grandpa as
being there an expression of love
and that words aren't always needed
for his actions said it all

he defined grandpa as
giving it your all is a way of life
that doing what you can for others should be second nature
and that you should always take some time to fish

he defined grandpa as
you can always do more than one thing at a time
such as rolling a cigarette while chasing coyotes
through a rougher than rough field in his greyhound packed truck
and that a steady diet of fried eggs, sweet tea,
and Betty Lou's hot rolls can get you almost to ninety

he defined grandpa as
sweat can pay your debts
dirt can cleanse your soul
that you take the road your given
and to hold on until you have to let go

Screaming of seeds

it burns within the earth
within the heart of the molten iron
that churns upon itself
it affects each and every molecule
pulling them in and letting them go
to bind and create with every destruction
each building wave
each crumbling mountain
each burning forest
each opening cocoon
it is the progression of these forgotten gods
who are no different that the children
who mourn their classmates after a shooting
we put a face to it
to claim it as our own
to try to harness and understand it
that which keeps our clocks ticking
and our minds hungry for more
in the consumption of our debts
pours forth the need to return the favor
and in there it lies too
in the planting of trees
and holding of hands
in the teaching and listening and laughing
and knowing that the tears
will nourish what's yet to come
there it plays in the warmth of May
where dreams bloom and fruit
and people remember they're all from the same place
and there it slumbers in the winter ice
where it stings on numb skin and stale thoughts
and can be heard by those who listen
as the screaming of seeds

Kansas Day

he could not bleed anymore
his heart grew cold and empty
the wind had battered him black and blue
that's why he left you
his heart had bloomed
in the desert sanctuary of the moon
where sun had given him shine
but the wind had withered that flower true
that's why he left you
bitter nights of entertaining solitude
wore his weary thin
until the tethers snapped
and the wind blew them through and through
that's why he left you
light had grown in the distance
a beacon to his heart that grew and grew
one the wind couldn't blow out no matter how hard it blew
that's why he left you

Moon song

a sliver of you
in these jasper laden nights
your reflection
outside my window
the numb and barren light
kissing ice with dust
gleaming in your eyes
the thousands of thousands
looking up, looking down
staring into each others souls
the chasms we fall into
the moments we can't recall
but set to the rhythm of emotions
to ride each tidal wave
from tides you bring
when there's more than
just a sliver of you

Sunbest

there was golden champagne splendor
in the sky he recalls
when he was a child
and the storm had passed
and the winds left the sun
dying on the horizon in the west
yet it erupted onto the canvas
in the eastern darkening sky
onto those clouds that had left
the buffalo grass wet under his bare feet
and along with the praise
the hymn of the toads bestowed
upon the lofty celestial shell
his soul remembers pouring out
into the awe of the hues and light