No country for old people
brittle bones lack rest
lungs breath in toxic delusions
breath out a radical rust
white hair is phantasm's wage
as the dead won't SIT STILL
and the living stumble blind

-cec

Dear MIA─
are you all-together there
in the middle meadow?
or do your legs bob down-
stream on a turbulent current?
ball blown by cannon's snort
resounding echo at gathering
triangle's bar calls to family arms
embracing memories of the missing

the dog tags wine on distant shores
scratching in the mud of our before-father
mothers in their labor fear, and loath
each forgetful life added to the toll
fenced in by limp flags near stone mounds
buried with ritual lies of nationalist hounds
each border marking a resting place
for an unknown billeted body, not there

-cec

Mountain crevices and glacial cracking ice
top of this world, far from labor saving life
there, above clouds, swim lost spirits
seeking ship's anchor on iron chains
in hope of finding solid port sans storms

winds that whip, whistle and blind
blown from west to east's witchdom
moving chilling fingers of **** frost
drifting, ever drifting, on whirling backs
of howling hound's jaws of vaporous breath

crystalized by uncaring, sub-zero mercury
laid down in tomb's snow and ice layers
absent green grounded colors, now adrift
auroral curtains draped between darkness
casting spells over vast flat expanses

-cec