The monumental image of this memory depicts
half of a man.

What makes this image monumental
is the unspoken truth
behind strong, naked feet
dancing and
kicking up dust
on top of a soap box.

Unshakeable emotions
warp this memory's
crowd of many
nameless faces,
pinching cheeks into malice
for a few,
long hours.

These malicious expressions may
be the result of the dust storm
filling in the blanks
for lots of people
collectively trying to ignore something.

Authorities have concluded that time
cannot heal a wound
if the hourglass has cracked,
so,
the memory goes on,
amassing
confusion, chaotically
like this television screen
showcasing half of a man
dancing
on top of a soapbox.

Love is
being sick with anticipation;
a stomach full of Egyptian Cobras
vainly strangling and devouring the Mexican Monarchs' reign.

Resonating senseless
necessity,

percussive impulses;

floods of excess
skimming the surface.

That mysterious lust of gods
where the denouement begets the beginning.

Oh, majestic sweetheart,

let me have my indulgences.

Has it been a long time since I've thrown myself into the fire,
since I've kindled the flames with my flesh,
until I was the burning.

My softness would dance,
flit, and keep the night warm
until the deepest parts of me were glowing embers.

Would I slowly burn out
as phoenix ashes cleansing rebirth.

Maybe the kindling is wet,
or smothered,
suffocating in warm memories;
smouldering passion.

I know flames are silent,
stealing life from anywhere,
grasping at the chance to be heard.

The noise,
hypnotic,
and never enough to be satisfied by.

Black mountain fingers push
***** toes,
birds, feathers, and native flora.

Suppose the babe was feral;
backwoods tempered, under tall trees,
stinging knees;

nature's reparation.

Steamy soil,
encrusted, permanently, under twisted fingernails.
Green-as-envy rain,
natural,
beat,
gone with the tree swallow's cry;
easy sleep.

Shattered glass, amass.
Sharp edges.

In a broken home,
the shingles fall at will.

And I, you, my love,
I'll suffer the blue siding.
Stained and weathered,
burned and scarred;

the tired bodies strewn across the yard.

A broken home to poetry,
and poetry to lust,
and love lives in the memories,
to melodies,
to dust.

It's those eyes I'll never trust, but I do love to see them there

Chanting, don't open that door,
we've been there before,

we've muddied the floor.

Smoky walks the tracks.
Forty paces on the green mile.
Death row.

But Smoky's not afraid.
Black as night, and growing darker
with every step.

Smoky's black eyes aflutter and spark
and notice an elm tree,
so twisted,
it's strangling itself
with rough skin, brown as the dirt it stole it's life from.

The twisted elm watches, but cares not for Smoky's fate.

Smoky wears a robe stained with storm clouds.
With every step he takes, the gravel beneath him ripples.
No doubt, he could walk on water,

not like the son of God,
but, rather,
a water skeeter, light and agile,
with a zen-like lack of interest.

Smoky walks the tracks.
The train is coming.

Smoky steps out of the way,
and continues his trek.
Keeping his cool.