Angel smoke

their raven wing clouds
the day in mourners shrouds
ashes flick to ground
from angels on their cigarette breaks



the time to shed our clothes
throw away those dirty robes
as they hang on iron gates
we sink into the earth



their murky ink clouds
the grays they spin around
showers of ash rain down
from chain smoking angels on high



the moment to tear our clothes
to strip down and disrobe
throw them over the iron gates
and revel in cold soaked earth

December 18th

words written in white
a language of a tongue
forgotten in the frigid
conclusion of the fall


words written on panes
of momentary glass
from a pen unseen
an author abhorred, mostly


spectral icy ink
tattoos the frosted flesh
echoes of the perished
that will linger still


after winds tear from
the trees their leaves
the sky sheds its own
in lace it buries


glazed in white words
promise of winter worlds
that torments dreams in
the conclusion of the fall

Swordplay

"Good sir,
I have no quarrel with thee!"

but a quarrel we must
with the instinct to thrust
into and within physical fits
to rouse, to spill, the lust

extended blade of steel
unsheathed, the heated
feel of blood that boils
the sword, a rigid eel

clash the blades and
ring, the song they sing
in rhythm, in thrusts
through the air they swing

alas, to fall upon his sword
run me through my kind Lord
savor your blade within my
gut, what pleasure you hoard

warmth flows and spills out
upon my chest and all about
pull from me no longer your
blade, pray now it be a spout

leave me in the awe of death
twas my birth upon your breath
wipe your sword with my cloak
and immerse within my depth

"Good sir,
thou taketh advantage of me!"

Robot dreams

do robots dream what
their purpose will be
if ever humans ceased
and fell into eternity
or does it even matter
in a robot mind
to have a reason
when working in line

instilled the order
of one zero zero one
never anything more
no laughter, no fun
in their creation
was made to release
the boredom of work
man's labor to decrease

what then can be said
of the creation of man
was it to decrease
the labor of creator's hand
to diminish demand
from the divinity rule
could man be thought
of as God's pack mule

can the same be said
for the reason of life
to lessen the burden
of God's own strife
for did man not instill
what man wanted not
when man first created
the purpose of the robot

Silence of snow

pale sky and land converge
old lovers, they are
in a veil of displacement

a place once known
now hidden in white

soft, the world lays
in peace and still and cold

where passersby reveal
where they left and
where they long to go

a shuffle through the
shattered frozen rain
shaken from floating fleece

those sheep in the sky

and eternity is rolled
out into the distance
into the silence of snow

Waiting for winter white

that orange and yellow

licks the fence in sunny
cold wind, the heart of
remnants beating against
the shadows stretching

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

is it the leaving of life
to a solid slab underfoot
that lays linear squiggles
across lawns and up the
houses to their very eaves

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

they long to hold what
now drizzles into the
black plastic bags or
heaps held in the back
of the house under tarps

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

for all to come to halt
leaking liquid on the drive
clings to pavement in
bitter whistles as we
wait for the winter white

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

Hell in

I broke a jar
she cut her hand
her skin so thin
those many years ago

and many years before
she spent her time in line
with chattering children
the echoes of odorous food
in commotion of feeding the masses
within four cafeteria walls

and then, when her work
was done, she didn't escape
the chatter of children
for I imposed upon her
and retired her rest

she had cartoons on
the basement television
while she microwaved
or whipped together a sandwich
for lunch, it wasn't much

a loud scream, abrupt banshee
sounded each time
she found me behind her
or simply coming up the stairs

frazzled the nerves
that shone from her tired eyes
and coiled out in the curls of her hair

thus the times she spontaneously
broke out in barks and whimpers
as though a dog waiting at the door
she got away with such behavior

for hell she might have been born into
a hell she may have lived in
she was a hell in

Among the stones

'twas the stone of a tomb
standing upright in the field
among the others standing tall

'twas simply a stone
looking back to the road
in the chilly eve of the Fall

couldn't have been
but the cast of a shadow
nothing else at all

couldn't have been
but merely an illusion
a trick to my eyes befall

there again it wasn't
quite the same color
as the rest of the sprawl

then again it didn't
reflect the sun as
the other stones in the Fall

pray, it also was
a shadow where there
wasn't a tree or a wall

pray, it was as well
a mist of a figure
its appearance its call

so perhaps it was
something other than stone
among the others standing tall

perhaps it might have been
something else entirely
looking back in the eve of the Fall

Worms and roots

they toil in the soil 

both the worms and the roots

the blood, the flesh

'tis their feast of choice

winding as laces through

a dead-man's boots

the force of death

courses through what's

underfoot to tempt

and snare with its

sparkling web

those drops of dew

that rain from shrouds

mournings of the past

shadows lap and savor

pools of tears and 

future fears, in frozen

tides they fall upon

their prey below

the viral sleep of the rotting

to devour us in

regrets, the birth of our deaths

tacking to the mire

trapping of desire the

whispers of worms and roots

Dug

how murderous one behaves
to become a refined digger of graves
knowing what earth to sink the spade
slicing through worms the metal blade

and what time to do the dig
when midnight wears its darkest wig
what depth to make the soiled bed
how to place the feet and tilt the head

then what lies to lay upon the hole
devouring the proof and bits of soul
to sweep the crime beneath the rug
this the reason the grave is dug