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

Pen pathogen

I may be writing this anywhere
from the next seat on the plane
the crowded theater's back row
the middle of the mall's food court

wouldn't matter the locale
the second pew over at church
the penny slots at the casino
any little place will do nicely

and the more I write the better
you could say for the circulation
as the heart drums its little beat
to pump those juices through

the shining ink slithers out
a river of blood on faded flesh
the ink of ages with its fateful kiss
to adulterate fear with the eventual

yet people seem more frightened
from the sounding sneezing achoo
little did they know it's more subtle
in the whispering scratches of a pen

oh but why, but why is the cry
why anyone would write this end
the destruction of all those lives
for the silence of all those cries

for the muzzling of machines
the snuffing out of intrusive lights
the break down of booming bombs
the relinquish of anger and of hate

also what better venue than this
than the written word of mankind
dictating and torturing through time
and now the obol for the lips

let this be our suicide note
as we've written it again and again
while this pen bleeds for us
it exhales our demising pathogen

Silencing

silencing, the
slow dance passing
in and out of
waking dawn and
dying eve

silencing, when
colors full in bloom
wilt and fade
into ages yellowed
and grey

silencing, once
booming expressive
voices screech to
halting speechless
pondering sighs

silencing, this
choking floundering
stumble from
moment to memory
to pause

silencing, in
cementing fluidity
of April rains
for still December
glaring glass

silencing, when
all those silly garbs
are shed and
left in windy fields
and winding lanes...

the unseen remains

Of sun and moon

the sun is a cad

licking anyone he can

and releases in

earthly combustion

gotta light, he does

making it burn so good

the sun is a bore

so the world ripped

her face off

and drowned in

the dark ocean waves

blanket of currents

gently rocked her sleep

in the lullaby of ages

in whispers so cold

in words of nothing

as the boy dreams

of bloody revelry

on the nightly whims

in fear and delight

so smooth the moon

beams caress and kiss

Sanota's children

great mother mystery
your children are blind
they have no memory
of their days in the sun

great mother mystery
you've eaten their eyes
they play in the darkness
until their living is done

we whisper Sanota
your lovely name on our lips
it escapes those who think
they know you better, yet

great mother mystery
your children are deaf
they lack the listening
to hear behind the truth

great mother mystery
you've tasted their ears
they've been fed everything
and are too full for proof

we invoke Sanota
your sweet name on our tongues
it escapes the logical not
fathoming chances, yet

great mother mystery
your children are mute
they choose to choke on
their words and their spit

great mother mystery
you've sewed up their mouths
they serve in their silence
in sties of ignorance and shit