I have always denied you this life
would be under your window. 
Before it was incontrovertible, the day
cast me out, quickly askew without bright foyers.

Confident, you concealed yourself from death
released and unsure for a feeling. Gradually, you saw a striding, fully accepting who you wrote out, thoughtless as you heard some people crumple… 

Places your ears can contain, rather not cease to avoid.
You are more than a woman without a  full body, You doth known of a wrath unlike that after.  

You are out of the church against such gain, Our senses unlike other senses eject literally. Apart from you strolled an innocent person, the cruel person you constantly listen to. 

Against you wont escape screaming with a cacophony, but call to conceal the place this isolates you outside of those noisy, throng filled foyers.  Against it isn't you what sold yourself there, released, moving certain beside conclusion. 

Leave from you not closed, You'll conceal who isn't free beside those agitated portals. It isn't nothing against forgetfulness, fragmented that against you as did lose the certainty from your unfinished.

Flee from the mundane without my feet narrowly closed.
Leave your freedom, It isn't mine to drop.  
Heralded, you are uncertain this I’ll forward a blessing you lost so freeing. 

Can't I see us whispering defeated? 
Drawn out of a desert of fellowship, oh that isn't what it numbs.
You are before some complete. 

Wont I give to you the brick you new from sprung the Macaw enslaved? 
Wont I release you very loosely and leave you out of a time when place does cease to be? Call against you the music you most certainly could

You are so dynamic, darling
I fear your flames
might be raging too fiercly.
You are a fireworks display.
The light and noise
can astound, and dazzle
but you spread yourself too thin.
I would rather you focused
on the blindingly beautiful bursts
you show me every so often,
than burn your fuse at both ends
and bury your gorgeous sky flowers
under barrages of bottle rockets.
I understand that your displays
are not crafted for me alone.
But, I know the spark
 buried inside you
and it is that fire than ignites my desire,
but the packs of jumping jacks
you toss at my feet
only serve to distract me
from your far more brilliant offerings.
I know I cant afford the ticket,
but either way, I will watch the show
from the other side of the tracks.
And launch one of my mortars
like a sympathetic shout
whenever I can do so,
without sacrificing my own sound.

where there was shortage
there is surplus
whers there was famine
now there's feast.
Where there was doubt
now grows a burgeoning belief.

Regret is a pack of Coyotes;
A howling dirge of cacophonic noise.
But, relief, and repentance
they are a dampening field.
A wall at which every single mistake
and mispoken lie, is forced to yield.

I am led to wandering
and diverted like a river flow.
But no matter the barrier
or engineered feat
I am steady going
ever onward
towards the valley of belief.
And If you believe it
you will receive it
faith is only as strong
as the angle of descent.
I am steady going downward
and I know that at the bottom
I will find paradise.

You cannot understand.
You see
what is,
and only know
what was,
in fragments
gleaned
from pilfered tombs.
Like shredded tomes,
whole,
but unintelligible.
What is it
you think you know?
Who do you see
when you review
the logs and docs?
Who
do you think you hear
muttering through
your dust caked speakers?
An angel
touched vessel?
Cracked
but not yet discarded?
Useful
despite its flaws.
Can you feel
the strain?
Can you taste
the stain?
Is it really precious,
or is it as false
as the piles of transcripts
dog-eared
and finger-smudged?
The prophesies
that have all fallen through.
Like the blue eyes
I was Promised.
The water,
a cliche.
A voice,
spoken to a child
in a bright
and steam-filled bathroom.
What is it you want
to discover
to uncover
to recover
from the pit
of past moments
and what makes you think
that any of it belongs to you?

I keep a cruel collection
of wicked torture devices.
Gathered together
in a faux manila folder,
labelled with a crudely crafted symbol
of birth to death
oppression.
I occasionaly use them
to flay my gray matter.
And as I stare
at the visual razorblades
and white, hot, pokers,
I can't help but think:
is anyone else using my image
for similar, sinister purposes?
And if so, I wonder,
should I be appalled, or flattered?

A plastic bag is snagged in the branches where I can't reach to stop its crackled song. The bag is an *****—its kidney? Stomach? Heart?—of the thing that's dying. The thing's given pills and powders, and graveyards are robbed to replace its parts. When it dies, it'll be brought to the taxidermist to be stuffed, and its stiffened corpse will be strung in lights—a beacon for people to arrive, two-by-two, and scoop out the void from behind its glass eyes. And when the void has been doled around, the dead will shuck, jive, and shuffle step to plastic song.

The right winter
for dope and ice
for walks along the river route
home

The right winter
for arctic pin-***** wind
holes in boots
turquoise dress coat
far too thin
for walks along the river

But The Merrimack couldn’t find her way
when fabric moguls migrated south
Fascinated by nylon nasties
they traded their silks and cottons
for those petro-polyesterdays

While she—
could no more manufacture life
than mint their money
So, they blamed her
Pronounced her—“Dead”
Decried her “*****”

Now—
She wanders sadly under bridges
stopping to eddy in an overhang of birches
In dank canals, I found her sleeping
angered only at the falls

Poor outcast!
with current edge she splinters light
from cities sadder still
retching her oily stench 
        past Plum Island
into the sea— into me

What’re a few warm tears
falling from someplace on a bridge
to the icy waters of the Merrimack?
Rivers get lost in the ocean don’t they?

Let them find each other there

I know it's late, but I'm
At home alone with
A couple of six-
Packs and a guitar and the
Love of my life just gave
That Old *******
Cancer the finger, so I'm

Drinking and playing and
Singing until my liver,
Fingertips and throat are
Bleeding
Since the radiation and
Chemo don't have to
Make her bleed any

More, and
I've got something to celebrate
Unlike anything I thought I
Ever would in a life that
I mistakenly thought of
As rich until
This.

I look out of my window at
Stars and a moon that
Pretend not to
Give a **** in their
Neutral shining and stuff,
And I'm less poet than lover.
I've got all night

For this evening.
It's mine, and like
All else that is: Hers.
I know she's with friends.
I know she laughs.
I hope she misses me less
Than I do her,

And just celebrates her
Beautiful new
Lily-like blossoming into
Deathlessness.
It's as alien to her
As Life to a
Newborn.