There's not a finer way to go
Than in the early morning
As the new sun rises
And burns the light fog away that sits along the shadow of the mountains.
Dew glistens on the tall grass while bright birds chirp and sing to the new day
The cool air is filled with moisture, with dirt, thick air with life in it.
There's not a more peaceful time to die than that.
It's a good spot under the large oak tree,
Nice shade and a decent view of the range
With a strong branch, for a rough roped noose.

A gruff voiced sheriff and a soft spoken judge
Passed the final sentence and kicked the chair away
While a somber silent minister stood swaying with the breeze
It was a fine morning to die on,
A fine morning to hang

Felt like the steel tipped edges of a fake sword,
A young lover's sting, inclined to make one sob
And feel sorry

But no, not a word
Spoken 'gainst the face of the snob
Never a parry
Nor a word against sherry

What a mixture of life
from the eastern wall
all the way down
to the western shore
where the sailing boats
lie to depart shortly
into the vast seas beyond.

Hear the children scream
as their lives are burnt
in short by the master
wickerman who stands along
the wall.

The fire comes down into
their dreams at night where
they rest oblivious to their
ominous watchman.

And what is the wall
ask the tower guards
who can look down upon
the land and see it all

It is only a mountain
that has stood there since
before you remember;
only some see these structures
melt into the sea.

How far is the eastern
wall from the western shore?
Ask carefully, few men
have traveled the land
on foot

How many lives does this
world cradle?
Seek slowly, as only the
mothers who have held the
hands of many babies
know how fragile
all is.

If given the chance,
throw your self into
the ocean to rejoin
the endless blend of seasons

Otherwise, climb down
the eastern side of the
eastern wall into the
mute land where the
wind does not blow
and where the stars'
screaming is your only
company.

But if you gaze upon
all places and see that
you have nothing to say,
sit down upon the bay of life and
become the thunder
you once sought.

Some prayers can be heard but not spoken
Same goes for answers, too
All that's left then, is when will is broken
Where I can finally wait for morning dew

Is gold
All you poets slay me
Please take my hand in chaotic marriage
I am happier to love than I was before

Thanks, fellow Doritos babies
And anyone who came before
Also thanks to those that are youngest
Who I wish had more courage to write more

My thoughts return to burning frozen logs in the darkness by myself. It brings me a lot of pleasure to burn frozen wood, to see the cold water bubble out of the tightly dead fibers. Purity in destruction. Rebirth in combustion.

It reminds me of something I'd like everyone to know: I've seen the most haunted looking tree give golden leaves in fall. I like to think that even though it lead a dead, scared life, time has spun its rare sugars into ichor all the same.

That is why we must bleed. It defines us, makes us gnarled and twisted and ugly. But when the wheel rolls all the way, it pulls out the golden flax that we were spinning all along.

The murderers who loved the most, the thieves who stole in furious tears unbeknownst to themselves, they too bear golden leaves. I hope you see that too.

World's a big place. Not enough words to build a paper mâché of it. Live it for yourself. Most of all, love.

Goodnight.

she always thought that she would die
like marilyn, a still life of beauty, of release,
painted in pain and silk sheets,
and sometimes life does hold that image,
but never death.

she wasn't ready-
that’s what she tells me.
she doesn't tell me much, though.

gossamer skin wrapping bird bones
into a lithe bundle named vivica,
soft curls spilling
claims her head’s always spinning,
always swimming in the sea of pills
she swallowed

i hear her hollow voice
singing or sobbing- i can never tell,
but it plays softly every night,
sometimes in whispers,
a symphony of stories
she weaves about her past,
lulling me to sleep so easily,
and i dream of a sorrowful, lost, lonely family,
missing their melodic daughter, sister, mother,
missing their train wreck beauty queen,
missing a woman lost in time,
missing vivica.

I fly up river
So that I may
Cry
For you,

You, the seventh sun of Venus -
Impossible -
The prism rain dropping from nighttime,
An enlightened energy.

Why oh why
Must I cry for
You
Sweet love, togetherness is not for us;
We are apart,
Not a part.

I'm so dizzy
With your name
And my name
Bouncing around my skull
Like free butterflies let loose on
Everything -
It's your fault.  
Of course.

Still I cry -
We could have our love song,
Which is the beat of snow,
Ice blue stone
Cold hearts leak.
Oh dear
You'd say
Love, don't fret
I'd say
And you'd laugh your robin laugh.

But instead I
Wait,
Slow like the walls around me,
My head sinking beneath blanket waves
Just so I can
Cry.
**** this.
I hear my own song.
It's my
Heart.