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