sent forth on a path of destruction,
the prince of war is parading  
through orange tides of
burning torches—
the funeral rites of
the dead king.

the engine of entropy spits out little
agents of chaos like bees from a hive.

they will sow
in time for the harvest
and when the sun rises to adorn
their naked, furry bodies
with golden dew,
they will shiver
in the remnants
of every dead star
before this one ends again.

a banshee from the ages
arrives as a missile of
determined suffering
set to detonate in close
proximity to the loose reins
of my forgotten destiny.

she wears a crown of roses
and embraces me with
her thorns
in the realm of Nature’s
loveless fawn—
a birthed, forgotten creature
gilded in silver linings
only to melt at
the feet of
God’s love.

I have cried rivers of tears
for people that have left
and all it does is drown
the land in a flood
of never memories
that keep me  
isolated in stagnancy.

the wet magic in my
blood is vaporizing from
my fingertips now,
the crackle of split
lightning spins through
my skyless eyes.

abbreviated life spans
chunked into pieces
of lives I never wanted to
live, yet helped form
me.

I see violence in the periphery—
muted and out of
focus.

oil-spitting broken android
smashing through houses
looking for his heart
before powering
down.

“I am clipped,”
she whispers.

“my wings don't lift me
anymore.

I am a trophy in a
cage.

I am atrophy in a
cage.

singing about the world
beyond these bars.

set me free—
I see the
window!

my flight feathers
will grow back
and I will leave you—
yes,
but I might return
and sing
to you about
that world beyond
the window.

I am not yours
to keep—
set me free!”

she commanded my heart,
so I did—

I set her free.

and she flew away
into the world
and left me
with a parting gift—

an open window
and a devastating song of silence
that echoes in my ribcage forever.

I can see myself wasting away
and
drooling on the carpet,
playing guitar
in empty rooms,
sitting in old bones.
no one is there to hear it
but it still plays,
it still comes through
like that—
with or without an audience,
with or without reason,
with or without permission,
as if it was more important
to be born than to be noticed or polite.
if I make it
to those old bones
and empty rooms,
to that guitar,
what will it sound like?
will I hear melodies of connection,
threnodies of yet un-lived sorrows,
interludes of foggy nobility?
I am deaf to the music of my life
but if I listen closely
I can hear death
playing music in another room
behind
a closed door.

Unto a summer and all that seemed likely,
set open as a tome
that old friends discovered lightly.
One day, as many of them do,
did simmer and saunter
under the golden glimmer and heat
that haunted away the dew.
Slumber then and to you shall pass,
a little of brotherly offense
collapsing with the weight
of ten siblings crass.
What can I say to one such as thee,
but wish and wonder and ne’er throw away,
the exquisite plunder
of such a deepening display,
wrought whistling in a cinnamon forest
of raspberry inlays—
unbound, incorked and nuptially unmade.
A coat for the shoulders
to keep the cold at bay,
and a rather wistful, wicked malaise
glistening in the skull of those
that always threaten to run away.  
Life is a gateway and nothing remains.

a hot summer night.
the world was a kiln
and we were clay,
hardening, sweating,
baking in it.

I walked by his door
and saw him—
left wide open like an invitation.
he was sleeping.
my father.

curled up in the fetal position,
no blankets,
just underwear.
the room dark
except for the faint
glow of his iphone
lighting the back of his head
like a halo with low battery.
his iPad in front of him,
casting a pale blue wash
across his gut.
he looked like he was
plugged in.
dreams streaming through
a USB cord.

he looked so tired.
vulnerable.
like a deadweight puppet
left on stage
after the curtain’s dropped.

like he wouldn’t survive
whatever was coming next.

like he was still
just a kid
from small-town North Dakota
who wanted to fall in love
and did
but that mother left
years ago—
quiet as a predator
cutting his strings on the way out.  

and now he doesn’t
know how to move
without someone
controlling him.

so he just lies there—
the man
after the werewolf’s gone,
sleeping off the transformation.

breathing hard
in the electric glow
of a humming digital womb.

another wasted battlefield.
ground smoking,
haze-choked.
bright afternoon zenith
crowning the only victor—
war.

sunlight skates
across the maze of bodies,
dried blood,
dreams ripped open like unsent letters.
it glints from the angle of death
and dances a shuffle
to music from a silent plane.

what am I to you
now that the wind
carries this stench?

a promise wrapped in vengeance.
a rotten kiss
pressed to your lips
passed down the bloodline.

the crowd roars with laughter.
ghosts foot the bill.

the water table rises
to meet the candle flame—
a younger sibling
finally getting their growth spurt.

I am weightless in the flooding,
drowning in fire,
burning in the afterglow
of a thousand dying engines
cooling to the rhythm
of hell-soaked hearts
spent on passion.

I am you
in the longest shadow
of the face you hide.

I am the violence of survival
strutting its stuff,
proud as the blood-soaked mane
of a lion.

I am the beast
that preys.

ahh,  men.

weight.
that’s all I feel now.

the weight of silence.
absence.  
thoughts like boots
stuck in mud up to my knees.

thirteen thousand nights
pounding out of my chest like a riot mob
choking on my life
and staring down twenty thousand more.
****.

the searing void
of an ancient sugared kiss
sends tears down my face
like tiny iron weights—
a silent guillotine.
you’re so far away now.
or maybe I am.

dusting off dreams
like they’re old pictures
and setting them back on the shelf
in this violet desert.
mirage or memory?
who knows.

I’ve become a warm corpse
mumbling “no”
to the tired lives that want to ride me
like an old horse
one limp away from being glue.

who is there to tell?
who the hell would listen?
who’d step foot
onto the interstate of my heart
dodging semis
and roadkill potpourri?

doesn’t matter.
the dreams look clean again.
and that’s enough
to keep the lights on in the cell
for another thousand nights.

so keep that duster handy.
go back to sleep.

these nights are hungry.
and they’re not going to eat themselves.

a severed branch in smooth moonlight
adorned above an open gate—
does it lead out or in?
does kindness wait beyond the blind corner,
or something severe
lurking in silence
to devour your life?
something wild with eyes for the dark calls through the night.
an inkling that this night may be your last,
and you’ve already forgotten
the gentle light of the rising sun.
death teases the truth behind the illusion
but never gives up the ghost.
maybe not tonight, but someday—
it will come,
as unavoidable
as the waterfall is to the river.
but you are not the river.
you are the sky, my friend—
vast and open.
do not mistake yourself for your life,
which is but a reflection
on the river, briefly.
let it fall away, as all things must,
over the edge,
into the unknown,
into the mist.