Unceremoniously,
birds and frogs and men
begin their songs

and I decide it better not to join them.

For all the wealth and health
and warmth and rigor
as the restless tide --
waiting for silence --
breathes and descends

timid,
restless,
afraid and alone

rusted metal of apathy
and the forlorn sound of laughter very,
very far away

across the hall
wheat grows;
up the stairs
is moonlight,

and in one room,
birds and frogs and men
sing their songs

when the ground calms
and ground returns underfoot
and the fires are out

the wheat and the moonlight
and the birds and frogs and men
will be farther away yet

but in the throes of desperation
for far-flung mountains and sleep
and crayfish in the river
and hands in someone else's hair

no songs will be sung.

in my heart's aching survival lurch --
mad, hysterical stampede as it is--
the wind will blow again
toward fantasies and imaginations,
sunlight and clouds
waves' cold whispers and the wisdom of stars

but descend,
descend,
descend

what's done is not gone,
and those echoes from away in time
stampede themselves

surviving themselves
on tantrums
stubborn drama
impatience's reward

because above the wheat and moonlight
is a burden of love and company unwanted
and my heart breaks
for the birds and frogs and men
who have since stopped singing

and that I decided it better not to join them.

When the air shudders
and the air is thick with
onyx pressure, dunes of war,
muffled gusts and stubborn iron --

A tree sighs barren,
unable to support their own leaves.
A giant of reverence,
testament to love,
time's lust and an intimate rot long gone.

The bucking of future's specter,
the manic hoarse thunder at silent soil
and patience lost to rain's unbent ear.

They who died with a full belly,
remorse only for wind's kiss and Earth's embrace,
laying with demons,
open door, dialogue honey, a bookcase full, sore legs.

opulent hearts

-- Heaven's ******* and Hell's divine,
the Hummingbird of West Berlin,
the mortal's roach and the stars' first undead

with taut bones and ragged flesh,
amongst carnival lights
and eldest fire's pride,

returns to the World again.

the cave-in started
with honesty,
a promise
an admiration of agency,
of power and pride.

it was felt for miles
yet went unnoticed
the surrounding area
laughing
"I don't understand,"
a birthday at the next table,
a crying child.

wine bled through the cracks in that cave
as the flow of native water
slowed to a trickle
and receded
to make way for
desperation
at least so it seemed.

weeds and smiles
withered and revealed
selfishness,
loathing,
pain and fear.

what appeared there
in the collapsing darkness
of the once rigid--
and now compromised--
shelter of those
warm catacombs
was,
in fact,

hatred

layers upon layers of sedimentary disgust
that rendered those systems
inhospitable
uninhabitable
anger
and wine
laughter

"I'm not coming back."

i am
settling
floating
suspended in the unsustainable
adrift in fire
and blood
missing parts
the predecessors,
victims,
of unholy theistic ritual

being whole
was a luxury
oneness
a virtue
taken for granted
in the box
we lived and grew
the comfort in the chill
of a fimiliar place,
communities
cracked apart and tossed
separated and forgotten
the box was gone
and elsewhere was hell

to be thrown to the lukewarm sea
facing the uncertain panic of
no more
in no time
we disappeared,
used and consumed
one more brief, familiar chill
stripped of the flesh,
i am

small

There’s a deep forest path that
lingers
just for a bit,

somewhere between stable and healthy

and in walking that path
one may find himself
growing

much like the foliage;
trees, yawning
and vines, curious, spread wild

breathing life
and air
and motion

until the path disappears
and diminishing greens
turn to sullen brown

and the desert looms

deep breaths are unyielding
motion is muddy
it doesn’t feel quite right

seeing forever isn’t as grand
when there’s not
much to see

it’s so much bigger
than the forest seemed to be,
isn’t it?

there’s a living reality of
fallibly hopeful distraction—
sheltered squatters—
residing above a room where
everything important is angry,
not easily suffocated.
the warm polyester of a busy mind
is sick with monotonous fear
that the residents below
will expand their decay,
raging in a panic until the walls collapse
and the nails in the floorboards are
upturned and weaponized;
a clever, persistent enemy.
this unbearably,
infallibly hopeless
struggle.
there are paintings on the walls
and books on the shelf,
plants on the windowsill in the late afternoon.
i’m worried these will die too.

the gift in a dilapidated
two-story country home
empty
for miles
through holes in the walls
on either side
blackened supports
and ramshackle comfort
tackled by fire
caressed by rain
you can see through to the second floor
if you tilt your head,
expose blood subways,
let your hair
grasp at spine
the fault of past residents
mirrored in big blue eyes
a world of green and brown
surrounding, no,
growing from
this pin-***** destination
left to the wind,
to the quiet
the underscored call
of persons,
stronger than I,
who knew they were finished
and walked away.
who saw the green and the brown,
and looked at the home,
once warm, I'm sure,
and thought,
"there's so little here,
compressed,
with an expanse beyond
so much friendlier than
brittle walls,
tender floors,
metal and wood."

so they left

and rightfully so.

somewhere;

close the door.
engine.
headlights too.
it's dark at this time of year.
to think, that to live is to be lost.
north, east,
orientation is confident;
with a destination, bold.

roads are busy.
other drivers, bold themselves.
to go and stop.
those stopped are not those going;
a permutation of an uncertainty,
decision one of a thousand.

a left at the light means The Waiting Game,
a test of patience.
enough to pander one's position on a map.
relative to home, not very far.
a few minutes,
the answer.

the eternal search for an answer,
emulated and abstracted in a metal box,
the pilots so sure of their actions.
they're sinking so far in to the game now that
their origin's memory is too obscure,
to see the irony is to think too much.

headlights.
engine.
open the door.
tired hands and feet inherit a mission--
next objective, in this much time.
a stone path is a suggestion,
it'll do.
who is to argue with the ground underfoot?
skilled men though they found the answer on their search
and were so kind as to lead the next.
wrong as they were, it's the thought that counts.

of course the mistake is made in kind,
a pilot's success and the search complete.
a sigh.
and the resigned optimism that perhaps instead
a bit of reconnaissance is enough for now.
maybe to find oneself here is success.
would they buy that?

here
relative to home, not very close.

on moonlit nights
concrete beds and
pillows of flora sing
songs

empty cold winds beg
company

starlight's wingspan
warm, maternal
and cooing that shares that
macabre bedtime fairytale love

a silence that has become
a wool-knit cap of late
hours,
smoke,
bitter drink

an excuse really,
for desperate wandering
and the freedom to stand still
pacing stagnant

shallow grey rainwater neighbor waves
nods

the choice, holistic,
to breathe and live
or sigh and think,

be a man--
adult--
problem-solve;
industrial

untrimmed grass,
the words of a friend
the gate's rusted

repeat a tired fantasy tune
with all the time in the world,
just enough to waste
to search for answers or for self

bundle up
the alarm is set.

All too often did
the calloused
hands of old
Father Time

hold me down
and force me
to stay awake

for years through
which I simply
wanted to sleep.

We sat
and listened
to what we
couldn't hear.

I didn't
think or speak.

All I could do
was admire her.

Her lips.
Her excited,
curious
blue eyes.
Her yellow,
silk hair.

She prodded,
"What?"
with a tender
smile.

And if the snow
could speak,
it would have
told me
to kiss her.

I like to think
theres a mirror
in the sky

that reflects our
curiosity by day
and our passions
by night

her eyes,
like green seeds,
made flowers grow.

the trees believe
that leaves fall
when she closes them.

weight turns to support
treble is an acquaintance,
a different friend

smooth-as-silk rhythms
stir the liquid air
with deep, **** hums

steel vibrates
like hips sway
and lips play

and heads nod
and cool tongues
taste the brain

licking to find
acknowledgement in
the black ice

big gentle brooms,
sweeping the atmosphere
with pulsing bristles

wagging its finger,
it seduces you
with a mellow, calculating stare

We are here to preach the dream,
to share the good word
of passionate fantasy
and the desire for happiness.

We are messengers,
disciples,
proteges,
of the things that help us
reach the moon and back.

We are slaves to art,
and the emotions that inspire it.

We live to create
and destroy that
which hinders us.

We are here to preach the dream.
The dream to be
who we want to be;
the lust for satisfaction
with ourselves.

We breathe to make others
laugh,
feel,
want,
love,
be.

We are the apostles of innovation,
rising from dust
where light once shown
to shine light forth
into obsidian hearts and ashen souls.

We are bandages for the bleeding,
braille for the blind,
and cotton blankets
for the faint of heart.

We are for those who need us,
and for those who don't know
what they need.

We are poets,
drawers,
painters,
sculptors,
musicians,
lovers.

And with our pencils and pens,
brushes and hands,
guitars and hearts,

we will call to arms
all of those who
have ever felt something
move like we have.

We are a romantic tragedy,
an exuberant atrophy.
We are anonymously outspoken.

Hear us,
silent.

I finally understand what she was to me!
After all these months,
Searching,
Pleading for the right words,
I finally have the answers I've been looking for!

She wasn't the sun.
She was the brightest thing in the sky at the time,
But I could stare at her for hours
and feel everything but pain.

She wasn't the stars,
For although she was just as beautiful,
All the stars in the sky combined
Couldn't produce the light she did.

After asking for sympathy from the midnight sky,
I finally know what she was.

She was the Moon.

In the midst of the lonely autumn night,
She lit up the entire world.

Gray clouds rolled along,
But none of them could block her shine.

And I stared in melodious epiphany,
I came to understand that in that time,
You and I were the only things alive,
Ever.

My heart beat in time with the Moon,
I understood its phases,
Felt its craters,
And committed to it, my own.

The pale white light cast on
The weak wooden porch has helped
Me recognize the one solid truth
That has yet to escape my heart,
And my throat will groan if I don't scream it now,

That I have fallen in love with the Moon!

Her perfect ***** blonde hair,
Framing her beautiful pale face
And its illuminating smile.

And without the Moon,
The seas would rise and flood the Earth,
As if Poseidon himself were angry it left.

The Moon was with me all this time,
And i never knew,
Even when it was the only thing on my mind.

I love the Moon,
But now the New Moon has plagued the sky.
She's there,
But I cannot see her.

And that's ok.
I understand now.

If the eyes are windows to the soul

                   then irises are just                
                                       colourful curtains,

                                               fooling the hopeful with

pretty pastels.