There you are,
Standing in the Darkness,
You have no clue where you are,
It's just black,
Silence envelops you,
Traps you,
And for a moment fear comes over you,
Then,by some force,
Maybe a jump or maybe you've been pushed,
It's like your falling,
Falling deeper and deeper,
Into that dark abyss and It never ends,
Your body Is asleep but your mind is a play,
The interpretation for this dream is unsure,
But know while dreaming of the abyss,
Your body may squirm,
Wishing to end this frightful dream,
I for one wake up,
More like jump up and on occasion,
I wake up screaming or in tears,
Because I fear it is real,
I fear I am falling,
And that the abyss never ends,
And I will forever be trapped in the darkness and silence.

Oh, you'd do well
to show me
how you move
and prove
you are who spewed
that spell
that sent me spiraling down
to this watery hell.

Tentacles drag at my heels
and menace my habitat,
of which contained
only a bit of that bad ****.

Now I'm wallowing in it
up to my neck
and I can't quit
choking on these eels and snakes
crawling outta the holes
in my face.

It makes for quite a spectacle
when a maniacal grin
spreads with slime
and slithers further
into the water.

It dissolves and withers
as it grasps at the miracles
swarming and spiraling
high above me.

It oozes and seeps
until it covers all I see.
The sea is alive with feelers
stretched out to reach
the pinnacle
I had tried once to keep.

Now I'm down here
breathing in the salt water
and the filth,
screaming at the sky
and dreaming of the guilt
I had once
when the sun warmed my face
and all fell under
the one light,
where nobody hates
the liquid they are
making it in.

So, I'll ask you again,
how is it you dragged me down
into this freezing marine oblivion?
And how did you give me
these gills
and these fins
that make life
under these unctuous waves
almost bearable?

Gazing into the bright dome of the sky
Through veils and drifting continents of cloud
Suspended lost dimensions travel by
I hear the universe dreaming aloud.

Infinity reflected in a lake
Deep mirror to the heavens far above,
Where reeling kestrels fly for flying's sake
Where breezes sigh like whispered words of love

Love lead me to infinities of blue
With endless depths of cloudscapes on all sides
To ride with kestrels; oversee the view
Which hitherto I'd seen with earthbound eyes.

For always with us, high above the crowds,
They glide; shape-shifting monuments of clouds.

Pink bodies glide by in an endless
sequence, one neck after another, opened
by the blade he grips. With a liquid-muted squeal,
and cacophonous struggle of the fore legs (the back two are bound
up), the swine pours its life out with just a little coaxing of the man's tool.

One, two, three...and more
drowning in the smell of ***** matter and gore.

White, brown, and black bodies
in an never-ending stream,
dangle by the hind legs, swinging
from the mass of them, roll by; the ankles
hold their weight. The man's knife is
never dull, it finds the sweet spot
where it slides between bone and tendon
and cartilage and into the vein,
thick and fleshy (a garden hose),
which pumps its contents onto the killing floor.

One, two, three...and more
near-boiling in the unrelenting heat of ******.

That knife, that blade, that tool
opening one faceless
animal after another.

Their names are blotted out in blood.
Their cries bubble out through red,
thick like mucous.

Knife in, knife out,
knife in, knife out

with dull repetition
and the precision
of a machine,
until they all look the same,
until he feels nothing for them,
until there is no difference between them and people,
until the sharp, stained instrument of steel
turns to the side
and into the man next to him.

Corpse dangles from tree by snapped-twig neck,
innards spilled out from stomach like rotten raspberries,
nothing but stick-figure hang man.

Simon Iscariot's tears fall beside blood and water
that pours from your abdomen,
similar to the emulsion
from the spear-wound in Jesus. Christ
gave you the highest honor:

that of making all
ancient parchment
statements true.

They were then hidden away for centuries in dry clay pots
in musty caves of sheep-herders.

Father lowers you down
the greatest of care
to the arms of
Pieta' Mother.

Today I was driving in my car, looking at my notepad
shoved without care
corner of a page bent
spirals grasped for life on the edge of that dive.

I thought that I felt I wanted to write,
but the glass inside my head was empty.
Forcing it full just causes it to break,
and so I wait for it to fill, fill, fill,
overflow and
capsize.

It comes suddenly:

a stroke in the section of the brain that biologists
have yet to identify.

a phone ringing at three thirty-eight in the morning.

a cat leaping from behind the corner, hitching a momentary ride on your calf.

a rush of amniotic fluid from a pregnant woman's crotch as
she stands over smooth tile.

How many pens have come apart in your mouth?
How much
redblueblackgreen ink
have you ingested in these pen-cap chew moments of inspiration,
trying to steer without looking,
shift with only *******,
scribble without seeing,
glances from concerned motorists in adjacent lanes.

How many
slips of napkins
notepads
envelopes
bills
book covers
receipts
skin
have you marked in fits of...

Your life may never be the same,
but there will come a time when I don't
drive you to distraction
occupy your mind
engulf your every moment

but I am not here for the conception of new memories:
coffee
arguments
commercials
Sunday dinners
shared cigarettes
pregnancy news from family
getting high
getting sick
car ride album listens
dark room hair pulls
bright room eye locks
glances across the table because
          everyone else is so stupid, aren't they?
squeezing into a too small bath together

They are all disintegrating
moments break apart
fall away from you,
left only with the clichéd sand through your fingers
like the memories of the

sme l of my b eath
f el of my tou h
so nd  o m vo ce
s  h   f  y fa e
  ve I h    y u

****, I miss you.
My eyes are bending down into this face.
I was smiling, but now I stand on my head…
I don’t feel I’ll ever right myself.
I gossip about you to everyone.  
You are a pillow cut open atop this twisted steel skyscraper,
loose the feather and no one can retrieve it.

We all watch you fade so slowly away on the wind.
We try so hard not to jump after you.
We are not as light, and less aerodynamic.
We would fall like stones,

and so

eyes misted with the dew of loss,
we watch you
fade away so slowly on the wind,
farther,
father,
until your point of brightest azurean love
is lost up in the deep glass sky.

The sight
of you,
bled out
in that bath
steam rising
like the soul
from a corpse
will haunt me
until the day I die;
I'm sure it will be soon.