Through a golden-amber hue of softened rays of dawn
with a hint of butterscotch rising on the baked back
gently hardening in the warmth, naked silk spun outstretched
reeled into a statuette, naked and glowing eyes half-open to a yawn
seemingly as innocent in her natural state as an unapproached fawn
she wraps herself in robes, descending from her attic
each step down seemingly brings right now closer
until the morning-do of Artemis in Eden is gone
by noon she is a toiling man in the den
by night he lays decay beneath his feet with every further step along
down the gravel drive, back up the lush and grassy lawn
leaving frost where her hair like wheat, ran all the way down to her heels
and touched the blades in days beyond,
a trail, tread, treacherous and dead lays cold in the steps
that lead up and down, where a rapturous child's laughter resounds
in harmony with a christening of an affair between the soul of man and a bitter hound
there, surrounded by the crickets, cicadas, and all the nightlife in the air
nothing on the property square, as if to suggest this were cleared by forces in nature
a hallow, or hallowed ground?

Once she whispered into his ear as he sat in the dark, uninterred
and even as stoic as he was, the closeness is what stirred
her hands were his or his were hers,
merciless and precious, left and right, run the fawn
they were disturbed by the conclusions that were drawn
roaming back and forth from night to day, lingering over the middle as the sun
mother giving birth and raising man to father daughter to give birth to mother
the loading of life into death, six bullets into a the six chambers of a loaded gun
the romance of morning blended with the fear of these nocturnal goings-on,
walking hand in hand with a shape in shadow, never to understand there was always only one.

Kitty lands on her feet
hairs stand high on end
little jagged bolts of gray never
euphoria in pheromone form
she rubs against a promise
her sweet little head perks up
with a purr
pointed ghost-grail ears cup
beneath the palm that rests on her
a shield from eight loves and one life
the kitten's tiny heart warms cur
whose cold body, hunched over the curb
draws thinly the visage of a flicker
a humming streetlight heads over
to the warm allure
joining pattering rain
keeping he rhythm against a dumpster
raspy breath lends itself to the bleak ensemble
leaning on the point of knees, lullaby rock to sleep
fall over, into the pavement on the street
a ninth love seeps, the scenery itself
busted bottom rusted dumpster and fading light
emaciated, mewing turning to a sad soliloquy
of a crumpled heart atop a wet and smushed cigarette
the lamp goes out on time with the city, and the gutter takes the body
but the kitty visits the grave, warmly cuddling in the chilling palm of its friend yet.

On a night where the wind was dry and arid
coming off a summer day of rain that left the surrounding woodlands humid
trees sticky to the touch, their red-brown bark left dark by the torrential downpour
now it seemed a clearing gave way in unnatural air
everything within the radius, dry and hot as sand in the desert there
not one wet blade of grass nor trampled twig
not even morning dew graced flowers that blossomed outside the huts
on the occasional sprig
in the center of this drought stood a lone tower, only a head taller than the tallest buildings
and still not as tall as the mighty trees beyond the surrounding woods
wherein lived a fell and gnarled creature, once human
who long ago had communed with magick forces for a wicked bloodprice
cursed to hold the borders of this meager keep against all life for its lifetime thrice

With a flourish they walked across these loose dirt roads
a dress laden with intricate gold against green cotton and silk
inlayed against such decorated, attentive details it seemed
with every rise and fall of the ***** that it covered to take on its own life
with every step and slightest breeze, to dance away from the wearer
a ghost trapped, tethered to the vain spirit of flesh that owned it
who's to say if a mason saw this, a bricklayer, the architect or some knight-errant
who had settled, no, in fact it can't have been the Knight-errant
Ser Hobbe was he, of barrel chest and light armor, with the club and leather shield to match
his manners, errant not to court a maiden, though the beauty enchanting him lived
and breathed, life into a person wearing her, the Garment of Green and Gold

Trees fell as the well-traveled road from the castle felt farther away, and well supplied
the people settled a village, small, in a reasonable clearing near to a river
with plentiful game and resources, intending to make it larger by calling upon workers
once they had established a safe foothold there and a system of order approved by monarchy
which lent itself to the tower rising, one floor first.
Housing the nobility, some cousin or other related to king and queen who lived weeks away
they stood in the barren home, admired the hearth and stone, then ordered it as if the earth itself would stand on command
to "rise" and "make it greater"
with only a crew of few able-bodied guardsmen sworn on their honor to the noble blood,
and all but two working at their behest, it became a setting for a coup in this development

Two stories. Another half or third, not quite as full and even as the first that housed who became known as the Wizard
though they are unknown themselves, only that the nobility found them and enticed them
took them in, and they were witnessed by Ser Hobbe, who was sworn into their service
no longer errant, now a Knight of their blood, promised the garment and its possessor in return
as though he were retaining a corpse that had been stolen from his care on the way to a proper burial,
as soon as Ser Hobbe was permitted this price, he took it in fashion,
the Wizard, an advisor on alchemical things, medical and magick to the nobility
it is speculated, was there in service to offer assistance to an ailing noble
be it the wife or husband, it has never been known, but in what became the attic
that incomplete, roofed over, third of a story that was itself the third floor
they were established themself, a center to operate
it is said that for months following the completion of the Tower
neither Ser Hobbe nor the Wizard were anything but venerable to anyone
anywhere in Ford-Moore

A ritual, tongue dipped to the root in ink for that
captures the essence of the wronged whose voices cannot speak
with curses that run as deep as their entire life, the heavy iron-gall
burnt wood mixed by mortar and pestle poured over the throat
and words in a language of blood-magick druids of highest orders have long forgot
whispered loudly the gallows-making cost onto these thatched-hut pigs to slaughter
that was heard and incomprehensible, as birds fled from trees, deer were scared towards people
rabbits hopped, and rain fell with heavy, pounding, driving, blinding force and fog
encircling the lot, an ancient voice that can only be conversed in once for the cost of two lives
one taken to make the poultice in preparation to receive the knowledge, and another to be the bearer of the power
every word symbiotic with something human eyes look upon and hear, but to listen and see a mortal mind cannot
one of the nobles, never know why or which, enacted the toll on the other and inherited the Tongue of Rot
it is said then that first the Wizard was alerted, and that Ser Hobbe was second to know
both quartered in the Tower, the Wizard scrying saw madness and sensed Hobbe
who was gripped by the fell Green Garment, as he wandered through the hall below
bursting through the seems of that cursed thing he sought,
his face stained with a pleasant, warm grin and the blood of the maiden owner, he faced the Wizard over the dining table
two dead nobles mere rooms away, Ser Hobbe an unwitting champion had an unshielded mind to the plot
with his might and club he was as formidable as the Wizard was, and they did not smell blood in the air before they fought

Rain fell so heavily there was no passage to or fro
no matter, as wandering forth from the Tower came a sinister glow
and all that is surely known is the faces of the dead then after, were contorted with the look of an everlasting nightmare and woe
they said for three times the natural life of anyone, as long as they walked past Ford-Moore East, if the sun was low
you could still see the sparks inside the tower from the battle raging, and feel the presence of all the residents warning you death awaited beyond the border; wise children and men regarded the wives' tale not to go.

Trickle, the freshest water
falls
sweet, cold, teardrops
fresh from the pale pedals
fever-kissed by the dew
never know a gentler mist
painless, this frost
fell

Shower curtain fall
hop, skip, jump, roll and collect them all
pretty shiny collection in the ball, a fist
never missed, like this, the equation
life divided by a shower curtain
time over everything that happens over time
equals life, divided by the fine line
cutting into the divine sea-brine grind
left on the ponderances played out to the extreme
wearing down a weary diminished resigned, unrefined, strip-mined mind
unkind, peek and time winds clockwork gears tight until the hindsight plight cannot fight
it takes machine might to resist explosive pressure under binds that never designed
sold souls a tin soldier in bolder eyes of better beholders beauty knows there is precious sculptures
where all that rests is a clay boulder

Better to rest
a marble in a grander arena than realized by the stumbling discoverer
sliced in half on Solomon's knowledge, acknowledged for potential
only a fourth, half for each half and half of that for half the effort
for half the price for half the blade
for half the cleaning of half the clay
leaving less than a fraction of a copy of the golem made
cleaned off the shovel that digs the grave that buries the victims of infanticide
dead crybabies, laid to rest at last, jumping jacks and skipping ropes
whips and nooses, caltrops and rubber *****
one grave dirt ire, eye invoked, spirit higher, fire high voices spooked at wind through smoke
on the wind a specter spoke
this clay tin soldier laid to rest in a toy chest sarcophagus
his jaw dislocated and lever actioned from the back, with a wind up key
wooden, stiff, disregarded and disconnected, eternally watchful;
a vigilant veteran from the pile of junk that forms his tomb is he.

Worlds away wonders wander the world where wits are whirled away
today say, maybe they'd astonished to see the accomplished Adonis
of Helios' Colossus over Rhodes who got up and just walked away,
with a how do dividing the curtain and cracking the equation
dropping Moses' staff, a shower curtain across the non-sequitur equator
narrowing the horizons of all laissez unfaire thinking therefore collecting sandal fare
heart to Descartes, an impressionable precursor like a fine red Monet
Immanuel Marx dogged Socrates, regarding the genes of dogs Kant a dog have his day
Left the Right Hegelians, barking Diogenes, Wittgenstein gained in time wit in rhyme
with them, Malcolm's Little shoebox shine, deadname drop Harlemite lite, right
Americanite a mineral passage of rite, the torch guiding the night, healing those
who seek the roads, scholars looking for Rhodes, reformed in prison, crossed by X
he is real, alright, the Israelite, a nation, truth inside a deception inside a deception
Plato's Allegory, a cave underground, as close as one ever gets to outside
is as close as one ever gets, months apart, crossed off, X eyes, truth denied
escape for the birds, dream on Alcatraz, Nirvana and Americana holding hands
bedrock to bedpost, money between the sheets with narcotic pride
where shadows, patriotism, politics and reality likes to hide
they come huddled, hungry, seeking an old promise
to find a statue hollow and cold inside, wander the globe,
strip the robe, a beautiful poem
centuries old, keeps a wishing dream warm
where the metal groans and grows old.

A poem invaded the headspace around the pillows- here
where sweat and sleep lay beneath the crushing pressure of heavy thought
crushed into the outline of a man, visibly staining the upholstery of this temporary coffin
that stores the undead, dreamless, visionless
on the verge of consciousness like the continental shelf drop-off
wading back into the self towards a cold, dead lighthouse beneath
a the cosmic horror of a black hole North Star
this aerial battle, dog fight, swatting beast palms with futility at the waves of planes
sent to deliver a dose of thought, interpreted however one will
an atom bomb lands straight between the eyes, with a meek groan
to all the atoms, a roar that splits the fabric of space and fulfills their purpose
the message, delivered, and the colossus, monstrous, slow, creaks to life
though for prayers of pity, and begging for sympathy, take flight elsewhere
to a friend in need, with these words, that would greet the world through the filter of poetry
so early, so wearily, so tired, dragging from the lair of impenetrable haze
would it even be an act of love, if these went away
and there was peace and quiet, mouth-waters this monster
to lay-about alone and wallow in for days, could that lethargy be forgave
that is faux to the empathetic gift of this burdensome inspiration
hailed generously as intellect, and attacked viciously as always the joy of imagination
by the joyless, those that purposefully fail to see it is pure to put the mind towards creation
tiny little fighter planes, bombarding with their ideas and leaving behind the radiation
the negativity in traces of memory, they enter into a mausoleum dedicated to self-flagellation
bent on desecration, this invasion
leaves behind fires on the mind, meant to express the desires to express
self-aware-selfish-selfless martyrdom, this energy should not solely belong to the slothful titan
whose lust for solitude is truly wherein lies the greed
the dilemma of mischief is convincing oneself not to do a self-justifying misdeed

How does one nation embodied by this giant, move another back to life in their love of writing
and if these thoughts that spur these poems are what it takes, an invading force, would it be an act of love
to commit an act of war in wishing them upon another?