It is five-thirty a.m.
I step outside for
the newspaper,

not four feet away
a raccoon sits on
its haunches like

a paunchy Buddha,
smiling as only liars
and sick animals

can; I toss a half
eaten piece of bacon
between  its  legs, pick

up the paper,
back away,
away.

my bones decay
slowly.
a cobweb spins
in and out,
in and out,
pulling bones
closer, tighter,
snapped.
i am a ghost, i
am the dust of
a burnt-out star,
collapsed,
collapsed,
collapsed.
i am the corpse
of a child, i am
thrown out,
used up,
and death drags
his feet behind me,
the angels turn
their backs and
hang their heads.
and i spin suns
out of dirt,
tapping my feet
and breaking
all my fingers.

LS:   This place is desolate
Where darkness ***** at your pupils
And infuses your lungs with a cocktail
Of cold and despair
Amongst the mistletoe and bells ringing
You hear a quiet echo of
Isolation that has no shape
Unexplained, ever mysterious
Fearesome lack of a vital link
To hold your feet down on the plane
Familiar to countless faceless strangers
And familiar faces alike
Where willingly you could join
In a silly dance around the circle
Outlined many spiraling ages ago
And feel at ease and ONE

And to the sound of choral
I could fly up with crows
And see it all from
Unattainable
High
Up there in the milky clouds
But
Nature is so uniformally ordered and
Strange as it is no law contains
This spirit so eager to escape

WW: I hear the darkening silence echo
And drone in the northwood stillness.
The forest treetops lurching south
Into the memory of sunlight
Crowns bending unbroken,
Grasping unspoken,
To behold the waning daylight

While the spell of darkness cast deprives,
It opens up the craving soul

This is the naked truth,
This is the light
Oozing from graying monotone
Spilling from cracks between the pause,
Betwixt the shapeless lines of poetry’s refrain …

For life is not a work of art,
The colour a fleeting moment cannot last
And the paradise of going somewhere else
Still so far away

wildish