Most poets construct fences
Of ambiguous and lofty blabber
To stagger, ambitious eyes
Clamoring for another

Hit line, that drags the body
to the grave and greets
Your mother with
A bird, contrary

To the--traditional wave
And jejune grief

Instead, I'll facet windows
With various cob-web cracks
And baseball mishaps
Till I collapse

Alone in this world?

Faceted with double edged

Swords


Whispering solemn chords

to muted minds
                
           quivering

Your reluctance to greet
the loudmouths who've come
to silence themselves with a
combo, pulled from a grease lathered iron shelf
is palpable, even with
the smoke pouring in
from the hissing grill.

I can't resist to wonder,
behind this façade of yours, what is felt
in the hours you ****?
Is your mind content
idly whistling to the tune
of a humdrum existence?

If these inquiries parted from
my incessant curiosity
are met with your resistance,
I insist you breathe in,
breath out.
& either
a) find virtue in persistence
or
b) leap into clamor, run out those familiar doors, with no doubt
that this is the end
& the beginning.

Propitious clouds fill the horizon, blocking cosmic rays
Emanating from a lingering celestial beast.
On these grounds of substance, humanity subsists with a curiosity
Unquenchable mouths and minds
-- we begin a rampant search for meaning.
The vibrations of our search loosen the crust, exposing the fleeting nature of being
Bewildered by this discovery we blind ourselves with faith, as if we deserve more

Unable to see, we flee in a direction unknown for the chance that it may remedy our pleas. A shadowy remembrance of these requests ripple across arid aspect. Heedlessly stumbling upon past, present, and future, we careen towards the eminence of death. Desires fumes overwhelm, collapsing beneath these earthly plumes. Our last breathe exclaims,”Life is pain, for we are submersed in the mundane!”

Sensationally-- as our hearts begin to tread their last beats
Droplets of clarity deluge our dire thirst
-- propitious clouds that once smothered the horizon
Bequeath themselves of all significance, affixed at high noon

Exposing anew the celestial beast that emanates a sanguine gleam
Reflecting in the pools that surround our pulpy minds

A dying man does nothing easy,“Lock and load. Let's do it”,said G.W. Green
Right before Jack Pursley sent 3-5 grams of sodium thiopental coursing through his veins
in Texas. Sticking with the states motto it was probably 5. As lethal drugs flowed into his arms, he used an obscenity to describe life, gasped once and made no further movement.
Imagine his brief confidence in the face of this adversity, before the heart’s blood
Settled in the ventricles.
             Some have called such confidence a monstrosity titled, “Hubris”--
Alexander of Macedonia thought it necessary, to cross the turbulent river against fear
-ful odds. For destiny demanded imitation of his exemplar Achilles
Quickly eroded was this by the pleas of Parmenio, who reasons it would be,“failure at the outset.”

Imagine Alexander reciting the words of G.W. Green, instead of heeding to this squelching caution
How quickly we’d throw this decisions bones in the pile, with ******
In Stalingrad & Nixon in Vietnam
All to be shoved in to, a mass grave of faulted zealots.
Covered with soil, bitter compost not to be forgotten
Rosemary sprouts next to a burning
bush in Iraq.

Of the hospital
I sat clenching a leopard
filled with beads.

Father beside me
Tapping his chestnut wingtips against
the bloodless linoleum floors.

It was September. The heat oppressive,
Like the Moors toward foes
in the Iberian Peninsula.

Rays illuminated the woes of those ‘round me.
A barrier existed
emanating from within

Fleshed out by a zeal, to not be                                       on one’s own
At the dinner table, as Father responded
to a **** addict’s violent implosion on Nile Street.

At Carmel-by-the-Sea building sand castles to be
--washed away by the tides
on the bay enrobed with fire
Fleshed out by a desire to be

dethroned.

Fulfillment flooded the lobby,
Father ceased his tapping,
A Florence Nightingale lead the way

past bland white doors,
past elderly covered in black crusted sores
past a priest who pours a libation.

In to the room of your entrance,
Nearest and dearest gathered ‘round
the blemished linoleum floor

Warm cries hollowed down
the halls, signifying your existence
Clenching a leopard

filled with beads. (Now in the attic)
Mother Rose freckled and content
Embraced you, as the world still spun

My eyes a maelstrom of red yellow and black,
seeped streams of grey streams of grey
for the loneliness fleeted that Autumn day.

It is 6:57. Startled am I,
by the nights dream.
Son of Jocasta, King of Thebes!

I head t’ward the morning steam,
To rid one’s eyes of the malaise
A few stabs
And my mind is clear.

Abruptly, like fire on the agora.
Desire veer me to vices!

A cup of Columbian roast, with stoge in hand,
I perch upon the balcony,
With no intent to slip, I s’pose

Each inhalation and sip
Fulfill temporal desire
beneath our aging celestial fire.

7:54
I am out the door,
out out with it!
It being me, me being it.

A woman of many fine

Words, made two sandwiches

One for Nicholas, one for Freida


On this day

A woman of many fine

Fiascos, made her last

With the drop of a plate

The turn of a ****


The oven concluded

the world had been robbed

Surely in the distant future historians will find our civilization
Appalling, destructive, gluttony,
Stricken.
Receipts of items that once fulfilled our temporal desires will fill earth
creating a toxic compost for life
To nourish upon
They'll blame us for the decay
And devolution of man
They'll duly note our fascination
With stimulants and violent trends
And most of all, they'll be unable
To comprehend our impotency
our hubris our clemency
They'll construct theories
That moor our cultural malaise
To each recrudescence of tyranny

In essence they will despise our very nature.
Not out of contempt but out of fear that they too will fall
prey to the plague.