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