I speak in
words
cremated,
scattered
with the ashes
of a
burning
cathedral.

My fathers
niche of combat
lingers
in brainwaves
bonded
and bleeding

A harp string
plucked
at birth
in a twilight frost
still humming
on the thawing
lawn

Fossils
of claws
dragging
tombstones
crumble
in petals
of the black rose
gifted

No accounting for
      the creative mind.
We never can satisfy it.
      Obsessed are we,
To make it all-right,
      Keeps us up all-nite.
So pls., don’t even try it!
— Ray Laccetti

Coax the lion
tempt the snake
guide the sheep
and lead the wolves astray

Keep your eyes on the lamppost
for that is the only thing
that matters
Matters?? Not
sirens, cellblocks, or
mindless chatter
Place it on shelf
the wind knows it must
shatter

Any port in a storm, I say,
so take what you can get
Though tough to see the forest's  trees
when eyes are dripping wet

The edges, somewhat blurry,
and the forms are vaguely seen
While pilfered ends that whisper kisses
justify the means

For sunshine never looked so good,
as when the sky is gray
And all the warmth will stir the torpid
blood, until it fades

And bliss will quickly flee from this
like sparks from lightning's touch
'Neath hopes that never rose too high
but somehow they were still too much

A profusion of tributaries pulse within
surge and fall away so swiftly
who I am becomes a question
I can only answer when I throw myself
into the great and powerful now
by tracing them on these pages.