Scream at the sky
Slice wide the wild yonder with your flint ax
The **** your mind tears at to get through
bleeds Blue
Royal tomb
cradles you
Roar at the stars
steal those gems of their sparkle and gleam
scream every minute you exist
scream when you exit.
Roaring Tomb

Within the hour I’m twisted.
A different person.
New insights, new light,
A new world.
Wandering around familiar places
With a new sense of feeling.

The weeds that have taken over my yard
Are now connected to me.
My yard is the outcast in neighborhood.
Unclean, unkempt, unwanted.
But now I can see,
That my yard is me, personified.
These weeds are mine.
They sprouted and spread because of me.

As I walk through them
They no longer disgust,
But cling to me.
I take root near them.
I feel I have always been here.

The willow tree gives me shade from the stars and the moon.
Its hanging branches cover me with open arms.
Its leaves, just upside down weeds;
Reaching out to me,
Melting me in…

The air is humid.
The wind blows heat.
And now the ground turns soft.
My yard has become a marsh.
My own swamp.
I am unafraid,
But left wanting.

What have I turned into?
A new being
In a different world,
But all alone.
Has it always been this way?
Will it ever change?

This scene is forever marked on me.
A memory that can never be left
Or forgotten.
A portal on my skin.
Now I can always return to my marsh,
My swamp,
My kingdom.
Maybe I can take you there and never be alone?

Words are lovely
but can sometimes be dull
depending on your mood.
You can make someone fall in love,
or break an innocent heart,
or have someone jump with glee,
or maybe have a poor soul wallow in despair.
Words can sometimes sting
just as much as it can comfort.
So next time you write something down,
think twice.
You may not be saying something nice.

His sweat smells like Benneton
Fresh against the searing sun
I close my eyes and breathe in
The breeze that carries his fleeting aroma

Black currant

Bergamot

Cotton flower

Water

Cedar

White musk

I came to you, oh mighty land
Asleep to everything at hand
Lethargic from more southern air
Not yet awakened, unaware
The panorama I beheld
Composed a view unparalleled
A pastor with his best endeavor
Could preach forever and forever
And never say with words as clear
As the aura of this atmosphere
In the awe inspiring craggy peaks
And the chasms as His silence speaks
Where His creation stirs conviction
That brings a balming benediction
To one that hungers for a proof
Here, upon the planets roof

The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,
  And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
  And the harpies of upper air,
  That flutter and laugh and stare.

For the village dead to the moon outspread
  Never shone in the sunset's gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
  Where the rivers of madness stream
  Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.

A chill wind blows through the rows of sheaves
  In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
  And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
  For harvests that fly and fail.

Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
  That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral power
  Spreads sleep o'er the cosmic throne,
  And looses the vast unknown.

So here again stretch the vale and plain
  That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
  Sprung out of the tomb's black maw
  To shake all the world with awe.

And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
  The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,
  Shall some day be with the rest,
  And brood with the shades unblest.

Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
  And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
  Of horror and death are penned,
  For the hounds of Time to rend.

Dying to come here from the opposite direction
Moving away from this place
They pushed their possessions in covered small wagons
With hands chafed and dry
No one ever thought they’d make it
When they started dying here
No one ever though they’d make it
But look they’re there
They have built their sanctuary
They have completed their mission
They’ve gone to the top of the mountain
And realized their vision
So many of them died
So many of them lived
So many born each day
So many

On some distant island
The fish swim –
In the air
And upside-down.
And they talk like people
And they talk unlike people
And they always look silly.
I’m sure of it.

I know because I want to know.

Has a curious vision-arrow ever glanced your eye,
Forsaking your pupil and enjoying your iris?
One or two have mine.
I think to the bowman always:

A black hole, and at least as complex,
But not a hole of darkness.
Nay, in my own, I see the fish.
An extravagant concavity that appears convex.

Eye – flipped funnel
Man – flipped funnel
The mind works like class notes,
Disheveled.

A realm of those aqueous creatures
Can’t be possible and
Must be possible because
I want it to be.

Even holes are filled with earth, air, ether
Even funnels.

Who is to tell me
That my fish can’t have their reality elsewhere?
Some infinite alternity where
Things go and are made
And holes, filled, are emptied?

Who to tell me?
A man who sees colors
To describe to a man who sees black
Some ethereal place
Which is neither black nor color?

No.

On some distant island,
The fish don’t fly –
They swim in the air.

I promise.

The 7 wonders of the world
Is quite a sight to see
But it don't compare to what we have
In the hills of Tennessee

Uncle Zebs cow is a big ole thing
Quite a sight to behold
That cow's so big that when they milk her
Her udders even have to unfold

Cousin Zeke has a six-legged mule
And man that thing is fast
One time he raced a bobcat
And the bobcat finished last

My granny's teeth are made of wood
Of course, they were bought from a store
But ever since that termite season
She don't use them much no more

Aunt Imojean has a twine collection
That she started when she was three
I guess if we unwound that thing
It'd reach clear 'cross Tennessee

Cousin Jake has a rattlesnake
He pickled and stuffed in a jar
He caught that thing a year ago
Trying to run off with his car

Uncle Randolph has this chicken
Who howls and barks at the moon
That poor chicken is so dadgum old
That she has to be fed with a spoon

Uncle Sam has the seventh wonder
An invisible moonshine still
We ain't seen it since he made it
But it's somewhere on that hill

So, after you think you've seen it all
You haven't seen anything yet
Come to the hills of Tennessee
And see things you'll never forget

neon simple lights littered street
               well glowing;
                                          deeply
          purpl.e
tired bodies roil
                              clustering
    for warm liquid spouts)
they don't ever stop
                summoned by loose
whim of smooth youths
     to dash their minds on wet rocks.
   what shallow indulgents

those

Joseph only nine sat at the dinner table, conversation passing around, a muffled, undulating vibration of utters.  “Don’t stare like that, it makes me uneasy, Joseph,” chided Joseph’s mother.  The hum resumed.  An hour later the table was emptied of its contents, except for Joseph, alone with his uneaten plate of food.  The TV, flickering its wantonly swirling amalgam of colors onto his mother’s face.  “Joseph, please, eat your food.  I’m worried about your eating habits,” her distant voice languidly taking its time to reach him from the couch.  His sister, all of seventeen, sat down across from him.  “Hey, kiddo,” in her reassuring singsong.  They talked and he ate.
Joseph hadn’t liked school since the kids began to make fun of him.  They poked and prodded him with words sharpened by blissful ignorance.  “Crybaby” the boys would jab, their penetrating and mockingly wide smiles, like jaws.  Each clinging to their inclusion, girls, in their giggling gaggles pass by him, atypically hushed.  “Yeah, he’s the one, the one that cried alone in the bathroom like a big baby” amongst themselves, but barely audible from the outside.
Joseph in his room, crowded by the darkness, lost in his imaginings.   The doorbell cries out for attention.  “Hey, kiddo” his sister affectionately, leaving the lights off.  She takes her jacket and leaves. “I’ll see you later Joey.” Hers and her friends’ voices waft, beckoning, upwards through the floor into Joseph’s room.  “What took you?” “Had to get my jacket from my brother’s room.” “Oh, he’s strange.  Sometimes it scares me how weird your brother is.” And Joseph, listening intently, as if balancing his entire weight on one single twig in fearful anticipation.  And his sister, her words forming slowly, then with gathering willingness, “Yeah, he can be pretty weird sometimes.” “Yeah, let’s get going.”  Joseph’s heart dropped, like a stone falling into a lake—less like a lake than an indentation filled with jet-black ink for water, and the stone, falling to the bottom, curling up on itself in the darkness.
Joseph, turning to his mother, her silhouette eclipsing a chunk of hallway light.  “You broke the mirror in my room today Joseph, you ought to clean it up now,” voice straight as an edge, though she layered it with a loud blanket of sweetness.
“No!” screamed Joseph.  “I won’t!  I wish dad was here, he would never make me do what you make me do!”
Her rage bursting suddenly through her self-control, flooded the entire room.  “Don’t talk to me like that!” her sobs even louder than his screams. “Its not easy for me!   Its not easy to do this alone, can’t you please try to understand…”  Joseph was having trouble hearing her, her voice and all else fading, as if the world’s voice were being smothered by a pillowcase, and he became distracted in the silence that enveloped him.
Joseph looked up and to the right, saw the stars, friendly and welcoming, with bright, honest smiles.  He decided he would rather be with them.  Joseph left his room, floating upwards, upwards, still higher, and to the right.
Joseph stretching his eyesight, saw something approach as he drifted further and faster into space.  As if from a horizon that couldn’t be seen and didn’t exist, there approached a colorful object.  Jupiter flashed by, looking very much like his mother’s TV.  It’s random assortment of colors whirled violently around in that confined space.  He said out loud, Jupiter is the most beautiful planet, I’d like to go there.  The planet whisked by.
Joseph, not disappointed in the least, kept floating.  He left the solar system, the galaxy, and came to a black hole.  It called him in, like a Siren, and Joseph smiled an angular, disjointed smile, and fell inward into the black hole’s embrace.