Emphasize the angle
of motion
toward the tilted child
in the slanted house.
The child grew toward the sound of
a stranger breaking glass in the closet.
There is no easy way to explain
the wound inflicted by those shards
that never left the room
or the wonder that spiraled round
in the shadows
as the velocity of motion
spun out of control
toward the tilted child
in the slanted house -
the child grew quiet -
a crescendo of nothing ness
like the Loch-ness
who you will never believe lies below our world.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Backbone. Reach for the front.
Divide the periphery
not
my middle.
You bend my balance.
Backbone. Reach for the ground.
Hold on tight
grow
roots strong.
You keep my frame.
Backbone. Reach for my soul.
Spread vertebra by vertebra
white
wooden wings.
You break me.
Backbone.
Spliced in two
un even
wish
bone.
Rigor of flight
snapped.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
The glass fogged slowly
covering the moon.
That pulse way out there, far away-
it looked so distant from the window.
I stared out over the street
black ash of dead fires
rejecting the ghostly light.
Why did I come.
This wasn't what I wanted.
One, two, three -
did I want to see?
the burning paper
glowing an orange hole in my world .
I passed
one, two, three -
did I feel Free?
shorter and shorter
it would be too late.
I breathed.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
The last time I sat down with myself
was in the sink
in the dark
penetrating the only creative train I could find.
Coal, cargo...
Robbing words so I didn't have to think
or explain the difference between
'deeming' language and
'demon' language.
From my perspective in the sink,
the retouching of morals
is all circumstantial
because maybe tomorrow I'll save the fire
instead of the human,
you know, save the fire from the human.
That way, I don't have to decide
who's going to burn.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
A few swaying tassels
fitted the bearded mask.
Shhh, it said, breath dressed like a shapeless road.
Across the forehead, spiders misspelled
old motifs- creeds etched in sparse silk.
His teeth were dry grass,
threaded through shredded gums.
He painted pipes and drove them to the ground,
to prove history can be easily done.
In a last review, he shaped dried blood
into a hole and wondered
why
his body shrunk,
his life coiled out,
but his eyes looked larger.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
When I was younger,
I hoped to be like Andy Warhol.
Everybody like everybody.
I hoped to be like God.
Anyone like Anyone.
I hoped to be somewhere,
with new faces.
I hoped I wouldn't lose mine.
When I was younger,
I walked like Grace Slick.
Someone like Someone.
I walked like caterpillars,
foot after foot, going slow.
I walked like someone
with a place to go.
I walked with no destination .
Now that I’m older,
I hope Andy Warhol didn’t know
I hope God doesn’t know I couldn’t see him.
I hope somewhere leads to one face,
I hope I can pick mine out among a million.
Now that I’m older,
I walk and thank Grace Slick.
I walk and don’t step on caterpillars, squirming.
I walk and go somewhere,
Walking until I reach Myself.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 3:26 PM UTC
They chop and burn God's growth,
all sworn under his oath.
Guns in hand,
another Promise Land
just to wipe out the good
because they are told they could.
How are we equal
when Big Brother puts down fights?
Don't bother shielding your rights.
Believe terrorists are everyone.
Your neighbor. Your priest. Yourself.
The one percent we are slaves to,
feed us a chemical brew.
Let's sit back like sheep -
Now don't complain or weep.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
The angels are out of the frame
because they argue with the sky;
draping their harp string arms,
plucking their halo hair.
Below, in the secret basement,
they are celebrating the water of life.
Above, in the attic,
Leon King sleeps,
drunk.
His eyes are blurry rivers,
flooding the velvet land,
like the place where the dragon keeper plants
his spurting purple fountains.
Destination?
Darkness.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
Flaying columns use to be order
In a Utopian world
Where rules spiraled down the walls
Even when the highways bled
And people held onto cold hands.
Sunday evenings use to be ecstasy
In a simple world
Where lust ran wild through the doors
Even when the tongues flared
And people lived out of their mind.
Bruising necks use to be pain
In a care-free world
Where love caused happiness
Even when the knives plunged
And people winced with blows.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
Am I the only one looking up?
I apologize that I find the world so alive,
even though the living are a dying volume -
closer to mute day by day.
That is what I see when I look around.
Mechanical sounds, fingernails tapping.
One day, our point of existence will be hammered
into a useful metal machine,
our brains useless - bowing down to a radiating screen.
Every light bulb is dim; they can't scream or fight,
their sources spit in protest.
Questions are satisfactory without answers.
No one is curious.
No one Questions.
Weak necks, bobbling down- down - to a control claw,
are disconnected from mind and body.
Since when did reputation build on fantasty
and when did people we don't know or like
become more important ?
More important than reality?
How does it feel to die?
Eyes already cast downward..
'Die' isn't instantaneous,
it can be slow and now.
Am I the only one looking up?
Can you still hear?
or do I need to be lips -
attached to those earphones.
Have you drowned out the world yet?
(I'm swimming in it).
I apologize that I am lost being alive
and I apologize that somewhere
in a place that doesn't exist,
you are lost.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC