This antiquated avenue
of ghostly breath - breathes
throne of the copper queen
and all who've been
will never be the same
sun drunk days
desert agave grey
hilly houses, some withered and crumbled
another vagrant, I amble
as red mountain swallows the sun
into night's sky, so soon
the fading light of day
startled by the moon.

Zoe was always a nymphic
creature
              God gifted prodigy  
When she was three
she already knew that
                                       above her ecliptics
                         jade eyes were shaped
  as a gift to see within her strange
Zephyr's soul
                  there were      
worlds unreachable
to mortals
                      indulging

unconscious dance moves
           she was performing
     a play  
finding her way through
piercing sounds of animality and natural wilderness

                            solely within her mind's eyes

           then    shut
deliberately
just to prove to the thick jungle
          to highly flowering sunflowers
that her head locomotions are fully perceptive

      her tiny hands touched the ground
glistening streams of her hair had been long(ing) to touch
her tiny bare heels in pace with every
bonvivant
little step forth
                     she had been taken
                                   O, Zoe you knew at three
                              
  That Zenith is the chosen point
                                           to open up
                                                     top portals
                                                                ­of deepest insight

                                                       Zoe - there is a moving star
                                                                ­      lit to praise
                                                        returning to innoccence
                                 Olympic 
            ­          sensible
               smiling
sweetheart

         intuitive little one

You could hear cracks and tremblings of every limb to limb
                                                   clashed
with dark humid soil and stones and crumbs on every ant trail
every black beetle's step there every futuristic peregreen wizzy wings
  
    Zing(ed)

Small people aren't measured
By their height;
That's not right!
We dread
The small-minded;
The bigots,
The ones of two minds -
The one they share,
And one they hide behind.
One face we see,
The one to please.
One hand held out,
Unembossed,
The other unseen,
Fingers crossed.
They're high in stature,
But small,
In matters.

you stood against your old battered car
it’s summer in Northern CA
you’re dressed in all black
lipstick perfectly applied
and black hat appropriately tied
lost in a thick conspiracy
did you know it was me
you had your suitcase
gloves on and pen ready
a tape recorder for evidence
each detail is prevalent
you wrote down the license plate
of my rental car
to provide to your lawyer
but never gave his name
i feared you may punch me
square in the face
and wished you would have
for your sake
a trip to the psych ward
was what i wanted for you
just one 5150
my last hope for clarity

Tennessee Coal and Iron
Ensley Works , Birmingham , Alabama
Ensley Highlands , 30th Street

A turn of the century wood
framed house , sitting high on top a hill
Sitting on the front porch swing
in the sweltering August evening air

Playing "Your car next" , as cars ran
up and down the hill
Swapping turns , who gets what , laughing
at some of the outrageous wheels

Then as darkness descends
the dark skyline turns to Hell
Jets of forced blast air hits molten iron
and the gush of flames shoot high into the air

Eleven , twelve , maybe more
all the blast furnaces roared
as sparks flew up into the smoke
Surely these are the Devil's works
Where men are tortured so

As this for a backdrop now
it was time for ghost stories galore
Headless people and black drabbed ghouls
and little girls dripping wet that drowned in some unforgiving lake

We would draw up knees to our chest
in spite of the oppressive heat
And I would jump every time the breeze
would rustle the hidden leaves

So scared were we as bedtime neared
we'd ask mother if we could
spend "the night with you"
Ha ha ha , she replied , "NO !"
And then she went
Boo ! Boo ! Boo ! Boo ! Boo ! Boo !

the heavy heart is a heathen
corrupter of better nature
committer of soul-treason

fueled by the miserable notion
that death is twilight
and life is dawn

to flight, to flail
to rage, to rail
to weep, to wail
to no avail

to unhope

and all of this minus the mercy

©Jason Cole