I write to the sound of my demons
pawing at the veil
like stray cats at a screen door.

i find meaning in the breeze
and teeth spit in the sink.

this lines of declaration *******
is tired and contrived,
i apologize.

lying.

not alive at all.
this isn't death either.
the next best ether to evolve out of
is probably the farthest away.

so please please please
just stay for coffee
and the exposition.
we all wanna know
if all this darkness is fate
or some incurable sickness
in need of a name and being forgotten.

all of this is a farm.

we are all plot devices.

but why do we always have to be
writing to or at someone?

mirror talk.
cheer them on until stars die,
all of them.

i wonder if perspectives could be
even more slippery than they
already are?

mirrors shatter in our faces.
blood in the sink.

all of it in all of them.

There is a stirring
      when one sees with clarity
            what lies ahead --

Edges sharpen, and
      the air pressure drops.
            Trees rustle where
                   there is no breeze;

A wind chime tinkles
      in a desolate place
            and it feels like
                  the end of time--

static on the TV,
magick bleeding out of a dreamy
yesterday,
passion rots as fast as anything;
think of the storms we could've
forced into morning cups of coffee
if we had ignored all the portents
of war and the war itself.

it's fireflies in a willow tree.

when a fire dies in the future...
**** it.
it doesn't matter.