Unceremoniously,
birds and frogs and men
begin their songs
and I decide it better not to join them.
For all the wealth and health
and warmth and rigor
as the restless tide --
waiting for silence --
breathes and descends
timid,
restless,
afraid and alone
rusted metal of apathy
and the forlorn sound of laughter very,
very far away
across the hall
wheat grows;
up the stairs
is moonlight,
and in one room,
birds and frogs and men
sing their songs
when the ground calms
and ground returns underfoot
and the fires are out
the wheat and the moonlight
and the birds and frogs and men
will be farther away yet
but in the throes of desperation
for far-flung mountains and sleep
and crayfish in the river
and hands in someone else's hair
no songs will be sung.
in my heart's aching survival lurch --
mad, hysterical stampede as it is--
the wind will blow again
toward fantasies and imaginations,
sunlight and clouds
waves' cold whispers and the wisdom of stars
but descend,
descend,
descend
what's done is not gone,
and those echoes from away in time
stampede themselves
surviving themselves
on tantrums
stubborn drama
impatience's reward
because above the wheat and moonlight
is a burden of love and company unwanted
and my heart breaks
for the birds and frogs and men
who have since stopped singing
and that I decided it better not to join them.
Apr 22, 2024
Apr 22, 2024 at 1:23 PM UTC
When the air shudders
and the air is thick with
onyx pressure, dunes of war,
muffled gusts and stubborn iron --
A tree sighs barren,
unable to support their own leaves.
A giant of reverence,
testament to love,
time's lust and an intimate rot long gone.
The bucking of future's specter,
the manic hoarse thunder at silent soil
and patience lost to rain's unbent ear.
They who died with a full belly,
remorse only for wind's kiss and Earth's embrace,
laying with demons,
open door, dialogue honey, a bookcase full, sore legs.
opulent hearts
-- Heaven's ******* and Hell's divine,
the Hummingbird of West Berlin,
the mortal's roach and the stars' first undead
with taut bones and ragged flesh,
amongst carnival lights
and eldest fire's pride,
returns to the World again.
Apr 22, 2024
Apr 22, 2024 at 1:05 PM UTC
the cave-in started
with honesty,
a promise
an admiration of agency,
of power and pride.
it was felt for miles
yet went unnoticed
the surrounding area
laughing
"I don't understand,"
a birthday at the next table,
a crying child.
wine bled through the cracks in that cave
as the flow of native water
slowed to a trickle
and receded
to make way for
desperation
at least so it seemed.
weeds and smiles
withered and revealed
selfishness,
loathing,
pain and fear.
what appeared there
in the collapsing darkness
of the once rigid--
and now compromised--
shelter of those
warm catacombs
was,
in fact,
hatred
layers upon layers of sedimentary disgust
that rendered those systems
inhospitable
uninhabitable
anger
and wine
laughter
"I'm not coming back."
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:58 PM UTC
i am
settling
floating
suspended in the unsustainable
adrift in fire
and blood
missing parts
the predecessors,
victims,
of unholy theistic ritual
being whole
was a luxury
oneness
a virtue
taken for granted
in the box
we lived and grew
the comfort in the chill
of a fimiliar place,
communities
cracked apart and tossed
separated and forgotten
the box was gone
and elsewhere was hell
to be thrown to the lukewarm sea
facing the uncertain panic of
no more
in no time
we disappeared,
used and consumed
one more brief, familiar chill
stripped of the flesh,
i am
small
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:36 PM UTC
There’s a deep forest path that
lingers
just for a bit,
somewhere between stable and healthy
and in walking that path
one may find himself
growing
much like the foliage;
trees, yawning
and vines, curious, spread wild
breathing life
and air
and motion
until the path disappears
and diminishing greens
turn to sullen brown
and the desert looms
deep breaths are unyielding
motion is muddy
it doesn’t feel quite right
seeing forever isn’t as grand
when there’s not
much to see
it’s so much bigger
than the forest seemed to be,
isn’t it?
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:26 PM UTC
there’s a living reality of
fallibly hopeful distraction—
sheltered squatters—
residing above a room where
everything important is angry,
not easily suffocated.
the warm polyester of a busy mind
is sick with monotonous fear
that the residents below
will expand their decay,
raging in a panic until the walls collapse
and the nails in the floorboards are
upturned and weaponized;
a clever, persistent enemy.
this unbearably,
infallibly hopeless
struggle.
there are paintings on the walls
and books on the shelf,
plants on the windowsill in the late afternoon.
i’m worried these will die too.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:23 PM UTC
the gift in a dilapidated
two-story country home
empty
for miles
through holes in the walls
on either side
blackened supports
and ramshackle comfort
tackled by fire
caressed by rain
you can see through to the second floor
if you tilt your head,
expose blood subways,
let your hair
grasp at spine
the fault of past residents
mirrored in big blue eyes
a world of green and brown
surrounding, no,
growing from
this pin-prick destination
left to the wind,
to the quiet
the underscored call
of persons,
stronger than I,
who knew they were finished
and walked away.
who saw the green and the brown,
and looked at the home,
once warm, I'm sure,
and thought,
"there's so little here,
compressed,
with an expanse beyond
so much friendlier than
brittle walls,
tender floors,
metal and wood."
so they left
and rightfully so.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:21 PM UTC
somewhere;
close the door.
engine.
headlights too.
it's dark at this time of year.
to think, that to live is to be lost.
north, east,
orientation is confident;
with a destination, bold.
roads are busy.
other drivers, bold themselves.
to go and stop.
those stopped are not those going;
a permutation of an uncertainty,
decision one of a thousand.
a left at the light means The Waiting Game,
a test of patience.
enough to pander one's position on a map.
relative to home, not very far.
a few minutes,
the answer.
the eternal search for an answer,
emulated and abstracted in a metal box,
the pilots so sure of their actions.
they're sinking so far in to the game now that
their origin's memory is too obscure,
to see the irony is to think too much.
headlights.
engine.
open the door.
tired hands and feet inherit a mission--
next objective, in this much time.
a stone path is a suggestion,
it'll do.
who is to argue with the ground underfoot?
skilled men though they found the answer on their search
and were so kind as to lead the next.
wrong as they were, it's the thought that counts.
of course the mistake is made in kind,
a pilot's success and the search complete.
a sigh.
and the resigned optimism that perhaps instead
a bit of reconnaissance is enough for now.
maybe to find oneself here is success.
would they buy that?
here
relative to home, not very close.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:18 PM UTC
on moonlit nights
concrete beds and
pillows of flora sing
songs
empty cold winds beg
company
starlight's wingspan
warm, maternal
and cooing that shares that
macabre bedtime fairytale love
a silence that has become
a wool-knit cap of late
hours,
smoke,
bitter drink
an excuse really,
for desperate wandering
and the freedom to stand still
pacing stagnant
shallow grey rainwater neighbor waves
nods
the choice, holistic,
to breathe and live
or sigh and think,
be a man--
adult--
problem-solve;
industrial
untrimmed grass,
the words of a friend
the gate's rusted
repeat a tired fantasy tune
with all the time in the world,
just enough to waste
to search for answers or for self
bundle up
the alarm is set.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 7:35 PM UTC
All too often did
the calloused
hands of old
Father Time
hold me down
and force me
to stay awake
for years through
which I simply
wanted to sleep.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC