How did we come to this?
The hate
                       the fear
                                              the cold holes in our hearts.

We had one chance to bring about good, real change.



How did we come to this?

In the moonlight, she looked almost blue;
the silver of her hair, glowing-
the white of her smile, gleaming-
the amber of her eyes, burning.

In the moonlight, I thought I saw her shiver;
in the pale skin, a twitch-
in the lithe limbs, a tensing-
in the hot breath, a stutter.

In the moonlight, I met my death;
through her sharp teeth, biting-
through her long nails, rending-
through her rough tongue, savoring.

In the moonlight, she howled proud;
in the thin back, an arch-
in the wry bellow, a glee-
in the bleeding drops, my soul.

I
was a crab
and you
were an aphorism
for a broken heart.
and I hate metaphors.

I
am a crab
alone in this field
as the moon glimmers along
my spiked shell.
but you’d moved on.

Bliss, the closing warmth of
tangled arms
                      looping legs.
My head upon your chest
as the rain
            patters
            down
and we drift
          off to
       sleep

Hear the voice of their god as they twitch
Somnolence and discomfort prevail
Silent bones in a crumpled display
Peaceful corpse of a deadly poison

See them locked in the pose of defeat
snoring nose- still’d eyes- silent voice
Thousands frozen in corpulent time
As they wait for their planes to arrive

seething, as the sour fruit
bleeds its poison along my tongue.
leaden with the weight of memory the heart--
but twice too much.
a day? an error? a mood? the regret of--
but twice too late.

t'was not mine own tongue what spake those words. I know not why from me they rode. but while I may not know the origin the result; still mine to bear. the responsibility still mine to own. The regret--
but twice too much.

As alone I walk these emptied streets
the only rhythms heart and feet
I all around am sure I see
myself amidst the trees.
But no it cannot be, says me,
I am no scarecrowed bag of bones
whose clothes hang slack
and innards seep with leaves.
I am a man, methinks I say,
a human living breathing man
with no such predilections wrought
for suicidal sentiment.
It cannot is not mustn’t be me,
that body hanging limp in-tree,
that bullet ridden slumping form,
that sorry teenage lover-boy.