warmth in the evening when my mind wanders
a stuttering beat to which my feet cannot dance
the sound of a sigh on the wind
and the sweet scent of salt water as i walk to back home

a fire roaring on the hearth
and the soft touch of lips on my forehead
the heavy scent of coffee on sunday morning
turning around the car at the rumbling of my stomach

the sharp taste of blood in my mouth
the fiery rush of it under my fingers
the weakening flutter of you heart
your life in my hands

a chroí
my heart
beating far too fast
as i think back on the things
i took for granted

Admetus swallowed the sun.
His throat was raw, tongue heavy with words.
Words of praise, of worship,
but the sun refuted him.
His light was dimmed,
hidden by dirt and muck, things he chose.
He seemed more human than God,
and Admetus loved him for it.
Still, the sun shows affection by shining brightly.
He glinted off coins, off crown, off sparkling seas.
He crested the horizon, casting shadows.
He shone on Admetus,
illuminating,
reflecting the deep bronze of his skin,
the curve of his spine,
the length of his fingers,
the line of his waist,
the tip of his tongue as it passed his lips,
the shadow of hair on his jaw,
the ridge of his calf.
He seemed more God than human,
and the sun loved him for it.
He fought for Admetus,
gave him all he wanted,
and took what he too desired.
But still, the sun is eternal.
Man is finite.
The sun shone on Admetus for as long as he could,
longer than he should have,
stealing back time from the grasp of silver scissors.
But it was not enough.
And when Admetus’ time came,
the sun was dim.
The twilight fell upon the world,
and the darkness seemed to last for an eternity,
though it is not told in story or verse.
Admetus swallowed the sun,
his body warm,
his eyes bright,
his fingers spread.
And then the sun swallowed him whole.

She leaves you a gift,
rough purple ribbon
with a wire rim to keep the shape.
She ties it in your hair,
fingers soft as they brush the curve of your cheek.
She puts a chain around your neck,
delicate and thin,
leaving goosebumps where warmth had been.

You offered me your body,
I offered in return:

A tuna fish sandwich,
A nice piece of carnelian,
Maybe a book or two about odd things
like death by electrocution or Leonardo da Vinci
or the history of the upright bass,
Endless records,
Enough jazz to paint the world blue,
My mouth forming the shapes of notes,
A breath from my own lungs,
The scarf which was lovingly knit for me
by my one remaining friend,
Lipstick, bright red and smooth,
Feathers from a hawk that I found by the road,
Dried pink roses from a corsage,
Two baby teeth in a container that once held film,
Hair shorn with a dull kitchen knife,
A collar of cracked burgundy leather,
Sachets smelling faintly of lavender,
A mirror which was cracked on my thirteenth birthday,
One lace glove.

Why did you leave?

if i am a writer, you are my pen
i find you, i use you again and again
and it isn’t fair to either of us when
your ink finally runs out
if i am a singer, you are my voice
i can’t help but need you, i don’t have a choice
and who’d think that i’d want to laugh and rejoice
when I find that you’re suddenly gone
if i am a painter, then you are my brush
i try to deny you, you tell me to hush
and who’d think that i’d ever love you this much
to lose you, and just leave you be

watercolours

they were never for me
i tried my hand
please understand
it was too good for me

if i am a peasant, you are the king
i have no value, you have everything
yet sadness tainted you, you felt its sting and
you settled for me
if i am a star, then you are the sun
you dazzle and awe and inspire everyone
and i am hidden and noticed by none and
i’ll never be the moon
if i am a sketch, then you are divine
even michelangelo made nothing so fine
though we are both bitter as mulberry wine
my love is sickeningly sweet
if you were just you and i was just me
you’d find someone else you’d want me to be
i know that it’s harsh, but that’s reality
you always push me away
if i was just me and you were just you
i would still love you, i know that you knew
and she wouldn’t love you as much as i do
but i guess that means nothing to you

you were never for me
i tried my hand
please understand
you are too good for me

They always ask questions
                Over and over again, questions are asked.
My lips a constant question mark, my hands a fleeting moment,
                 my hair ******* in thoughts I never question.
whether I am asking for knowledge or release or death is uncertain.
                               The last two are not mutually exclusive.
                                                             My bones are restless.
When she dips into the spaces between your ribs, digs out flesh and words with claws
                   I often wonder if you can even feel it.
                                        But my hair is too messy and requires my attention,
      My hands are too chapped for me to do anything but lick the cracking skin.
We are not an answer, and questions are not lifeboats.
         The sea is not afraid to toss and turn in its bed, drowning nightmares beneath it,
                                                             ­             But who are they?
                            My lips think they know, but they say nothing,
pinched into silence by something different than us, but not bigger.

                                       When our knowledge makes manifest something like peace
   I return to my whetstone, press my teeth to the grain, and wait for the storm to put me to sleep.

A wickerman of red wax
Flaming eyes, and flaming head
A chariot of blood for a king
An entourage of love for the prince
I ask of you
To love yourself
And say to me
Igni Ferroque

I am ignorant and selfish
A shattered heart, a broken branch
A circle of the world, bright and fading
A thunderstorm, a spark for a life
If you ask of me
To love myself
And say to me
In Absentia

I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would do so much more.
When I say the things I do.
the terrible words that I see douse the lights in your eyes,
I cannot help it.
They flow from my mouth like wine from a bottle,
a bitter cognac into a cup,
and though your flame should sometimes be fostered by the alcohol,
at times it is too much.
For that, I apologize.
I would be better for you.
I would fight your battles,
be the brunt of every joke,
be the example of those who do not care,
take any punch your enemies might throw.
I would believe.
I would feel passion enough to believe in something.
I believe in nothing,
but
I believe in you.
In your light and darkness,
in your speech and silence,
in your disbelief in me.
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would die for you.

Sweet silver tongued,
she walks by the bay,
invites all the gulls and the pipers to play.
She stretches a hand and th'overclouds give way.
She understands we all ache to obey.

Singing a song,
a ballad or two,
With wild abandon our volume, it grew.
Shushing and laughing we trip on the sand,
Cacophonous four legged marching band.

We sit for a moment,
Silence envelops, almost drowning the waves,
and I see
she is standing with anger,
anger that sends young men to their graves,
and is turning to me.

When her heart speaks,
it speaks oh so clear,
The sound of her voice echoes on in your ear.
Basorexic,
I admire her frame.
Mild alexic,
analytical games.

She leaves me alone,
and up on the hour,
the mood itself crumbled, acerbic and dour.
After she's gone I am tangled in gloom.
In the dusk of the sea
all the sailing ships spoom.

Walk by myself,
I sit with my face tilted up to the sun
beneath the crawling sky.
Heart torn to bits by
the wretched words spat out
before it begun
and you tell me not to cry,
livid and restless
from every ling'ring sound.
I close my eyes and I
try not the hear
this masquerade I have found
pecking and crowing, oh

please leave my mind.
For once, please be kind.
It seems that our long-fated stars weren't aligned.
Every love letter left patiently unsigned,
remains as a stain of a heart left behind.

It’s been seven years and I still don’t think I’ve processed it
For most of my young life I had no mother
For most of my young life I had no father
There was only her, mother of my mother
A sharp woman with hands like sharpened scissors
Counsel and Care, the altar I was made to pray at
Her touch was soft unless it was hard, and hard unless it was soft
Like salt tossed over her shoulder,
Like warm potatoes in the sun
Like a bowl of cheerios before the bus comes
We prayed the rosary every morning
And I told her about my gods and myths
I told her about the rocks and crystals
And I cried about numbers
We prayed the rosary every morning, and I couldn’t bring myself to mind
We went to church on Sundays, and I sang as loud as I wanted
We picked out melons at the grocery store and ate them by the pool

It’s been seven years, and I miss her
And I will miss her
I’ll cry when I hear Que Sera Sera
I’ll eat saltines and still think to myself they aren’t that good
I’ll keep my rosary and sometimes I will pray
I will miss her
And I can only hope to be like her someday
And I hope that she is proud

We fall past the need of others
Entrapped and wrenched from howling legions
Smell the air, the sense of sages
Crying 'Secrets! Secrets beyond ages!'

Sell your soul for whispered love
A candle burning into skin
Forbidden words spill from mangled throats
Tongues wag loose, tell me what hurts

I know your fears and sacred comforts
Fleeting addict shakes with longing
Give me touch till your bones are empty
I fill your needs from my own coffers

I fill your needs from my own coffers

This was a bad idea
I tell myself as your words bite into my skin
poison deadlier than that of a thousand vipers
And yet I brought this upon myself
At least that's what you tell me
I sit, staring
The words will only constrict me if I try to fight
Consequences
Some of these I deserve
Some I do not
Some I do not receive
I am grateful for those fleeting moments,
the times where you tell me you're proud of me
Those seconds when the pain eases,
when the voice in my head is quiet
It's funny, it sounds like you
You tell me I don't listen, that you bear no weight in my life
yet you weigh my life down, drowning it until ink runs off paper
and into my mouth
as I ***** up lessons and salty sea water
But you are deaf to my words
While your voice booms in my ears like the voice of God
I mean nothing to you
These words mean nothing
This was a bad idea
I tell myself

If you gave me your heart like I gave you mine
I would gently close my fingers
around pulsing muscle
I would clench my jaw
I would close my eyes
and I would squeeze
until it ruptured in my hand
the warmth of your blood reminding me
just how love feels

The sound of my love is a harp
you plucking my heartstrings until they make fine music
as I sing a melody along with your skillful fingers
How naturally you played
as if you didn't know what you were doing
You do know, right?
Oh
I see
And the music dies off but still I sing
the melody that you played in my heart
to the empty expanses of the
life I lead
And I remember the taste of cheap wine and cigarettes in your mouth
although we were both too young to drink
and I remember your voice singing softly in my ear
songs for someone else
and I remember the touch of your hands on my sides and on my face
and the taste of my own blood in my mouth from your clumsy teeth
and I remember crying out the window while looking at the skyline
and the new year's fireworks that weren't ours
And still I sing your song
but not for you to hear
to preserve the melody you stole from my heart

Artemis
my Lady
though she belongs to none
light of the Moon
frowning down upon
the empty land
and lowered mounts
the ten pointed Star
crowns her head
and comets string her bow
Her arrow pierces
the center of my forehead
and I am Made new
made eternal
until my blood
feeds the cereus
that blooms only
at Night

The silence crosses distances
and hits something in the fear of my heart
There is nothing worse than forgetting
The mind removes that which it can no longer hold
My name is fresh upon your lips
and yet I have never heard you speak it
My name is fresh upon your lips
though it has been uttered with scorn
My name is fresh upon your lips
love, for once, a flavor sweet and welcome
Our distance has always been great
Our distance grows farther still
For now, you are far away
But when you come back, will you still love me?

He once asked me, “Do I dare?” To which I reply
with quivering hands and wide open eyes
“How do we disturb what it is that we are?
After all, you yourself are not unlike a star.”
You see, all our lives we spend burning away
We give others light till the end of our days
And everyone else is of star-matter too
so can you not say that the universe is you?
So yes, we must dare to disturb our own minds.
We never know what possibility finds.
It may be art or a universe new.
The outcome depends on what you will do.
So dare if you wish and dare if you will
and dare the world until you have had your fill
because one of these days all our daring must cease
as we turn back to star-matter, reaching our peace.
And we flow on and on to the end of all time
and the universe finally frees our minds
and the mermaids are singing a song just for you
and there’s marmalade, teacups, and fresh peaches too
and the crest of your life has just truly begun
because if you’re a star, then you can be the sun
and the light you give off is a beautiful flare.
It inspires a young boy to ask, “Do I dare?”

When I hear your voice,
I feel like I'm feeling.
I am no longer numb.
It isn't quite joy.
It isn't quite anger.
It isn't my righteous indignation.
I feel like I might be me.
I might be something similar.
When I watch your hands,
they look warm,
I want to sing with you.
I don't know the words,
my hands don't.
But I wish to silence my tongue,
speak with fingers.
Soon, I will no longer hear,
so I must learn to sing without a voice,
paint words with steady hands.
Mine shake,
timid and frightened to convey
what my lips cannot,
vibrations slightly off from the violin.
You instruct me how to feel,
how to not feel and gain substance.

If you close your eyes and listen closely
you can hear the ocean in my lungs like a conch
After once deciding that I was thirsty for something other than life
for control
I drank the sea like a cup of fresh black tea in the afternoon.
And as my lungs stilled and my eyes slid closed
I felt the pull of the current
and the call of the one who calls us all to the sea
lost sailors we are
with no boats and too many troubles
She sang into the night, voice old and wise
voice lulling and moving
voice the sound of home
and waves crashing upon the shore
But as I saw her face, I saw she disapproved
as the men carried my body through the stark whiteness of bliss
And she sang a song of sadness for me
a song of wanting but wanting for little
a song of praise for the golden house of the sun in the morning
that reflected in the waves of her eye
And I felt the ocean pull me back out, back to this world I am not sure I love
away from the one who still calls to me
and I listen quietly
still
and silent
except for the sound of the ocean in my lungs

When I look up at the sky,
the night glittering iridescent,
winking like a beetle shell,
I think I see you.
You, the unknown,
the fear of faithful men.
You, new knowledge,
wisdom beyond might of human minds.
You, the song of the universe,
harmonics echoing through the stars.
I stare into you.
Do you stare back?

When she held me, I felt like an earthquake,
shrapnel cutting quick to the bone.
I’m disaster, an unknown
kind of danger is the most dangerous

When he held me, I felt like a riptide,
all control ran out the door.
With the *** and cappuccinos
I felt out of place in my new home

When she held me, I felt disgusting,
every move my own betrayal.
Yes, she hurt like a gunshot
but I did this to myself

When he held me, I felt strange,
like I should give my whole self.
He never asked, I’m thankful.
I don’t want to ruin everything else

When she held me, I felt like a secret,
like I was something small and wild.
In a room of screaming children,
we were something invincible

He never held me, but that’s alright.
Someone tell him I understand.
Take it slow, like we’re new friends.
I’m alive for once

No one touch me, I don’t want it.
Stop breathing down my neck.
My throat fills with *****,
But the hands never rest

No one touch me, leave me alone.
Stop pressing on my back.
There are thumbprints on my wrist bones
and handprints on my thighs

Don’t touch me when you aren’t here.
So many years have passed.
Is it trauma? I don’t care.
The filthy feeling always lasts

Don’t touch me when you aren’t here.
Nobody ever has to know.
When you’re sitting by your lonesome
Nobody cares, you’re on your own

Nobody cares, you’re on your own

In the waist high soy fields
We laugh like choking dogs
On the image of the hand that yields
So we worship in restless monologues

In the ice cold bite of the frozen lake
We encounter the spirit of naught
Naught which has given, naught that we will take
And the holler seems farther with every thought

I am a soul sick woman in the body of a child
A child with formlessness untoward
I wish to run as fast as the stallions, bucking wild
But I’m stuck here in the yard

When you push your eyes to the horizon
Do you feel that stirring, longing, yearning
Deep and tender heartless feeling
Leaves the mind inside the body reeling
When you tip your face up to the endless sun
Do you feel that wars inside we only narrowly won
The civil conflict, the trenches, blood in buckets subdued
The maladapted, anachronistic, bad attitude
I am forgiven for all my double-hearted shame
Tell me, if you can, what is my name

From black to thinning darkness brings
a golden fire,
a ring of brightness amidst the grey,
unhinged jaws,
iridescence.
I grow and grow, unlike tree, unlike living beast,
like a mountain, cold and unmoving.
I rumble like a volcano, a laugh to rival the Gods'.
They make creation,
I make destruction.
I form chaos with my claws, rip richness from earth,
from open graves, from open ribs.
I drink the body's wine, dripping from lips, sizzling on skin.
Smoke rises, obscures slitted eyes.
Serpens, adored;
a symbol.
Emblazoned, glittering,
golden against the silken sky of night.
Out from thinning black, the light of the sun.

Electricity runs in my blood,
Painting the trees a more vibrant green,
Than the unburning eye can see.
The taste of the air.
The burn of ice in my lungs.
The charge under my skin.
The world moves in slow motion,
But my heart beats fast in my chest,
And I feel warmth run to my upper lip.
The red is startling,
Sends my mind into fright,
But I soon relish in the feeling.
Seemingly alive for the first time.
Seemingly dying.
The feeling of birth and death as one.
The feeling of life and decay as one.
The feeling of adrenaline and sleep.
My hands are shaking.
My hands are shaking.
I got blood on my sleeve.
I want it in my mouth.
I put the fabric in between my teeth
And ****
But I can taste no copper.
I am trembling,
The chalk lodged in my throat.
I am flying high,
So high.
And know it will pass.
I am Icarus flying by the sun
I am Daedalus, ashamed of his failure
My fingers do not craft wings,
But words.
Endless, nonsense words
That my mind deems sensible.
But I am Newton.
But all things must fall,
And gravity has it’s hold of me.
It never brings me down gently.
All things must fall.
Even stars must fall.
Even stars.
Even angels.
Even lovers.
I love it,
love.
I love love.
I love to love.
I hate to lose.
I miss it.
I miss loving.
I miss falling.
I miss the natural drop.
This is artificial,
Electricity holding my wings aloft.
The wind whispers no poetry.
This is not beautiful.
This is not harps and angels.
This is not making love in the hay fields.
This is not a dive off of a cliff.
This is the bass in my ears.
The whispered hush in my head.
The shaking of my desperate legs.
And I hear the beat drop.
All things must fall.
All things must fall.
Even girls must fall.
Even boys must fall.
Even the place between must drop to it’s knees and beg.
See me.
See me.
Watch me as I burn myself to the ground.
Watch me hit the ground.
All things must fall.

Crow looked at Vulture
Asked, "Why do you bring death?"
Vulture looked at Crow
Said, "For the reason misfortune is your burden to bear"
Crow looked at Vulture
Asked, "And why must you taste blood?"
Vulture looked at Crow
Said, "For the reason your eyes catch the sunlight"
Crow looked at Vulture
Asked, "And why must we remain this way?"
Vulture looked at Crow
And he looked at Crow
And Crow looked back
And Vulture said, "We have known nothing more"
And Crow looked back
"Then we must learn"
"Then we must learn"

The sleep of the sword does not answer my call
Sweet Jezebel sways with the winds of the fall
While the Goosegrass loudly beckons, singing to stay
The Foxgloves, they whisper “one day, one day”.

I’m longing to be respectfully flame-farewelled
But the Lion’s Tooth sees that my dreams are dispelled
In the sweet summer madness, my Devil’s Milk pride
Shrivels and dies; looks like Ring-a-Bells lied

With a wave of my hand the swan of blood lands,
And the spear-din begins
With a noble glance the troops advance
Chieftains or kings, breakers of rings

The winter begs death and the is-ness of song
My soft sophomania playing along
A hymn on the psaltery drifts for a dime
Of seven sweet maidens missing in time

Tell me plainly, why does the spring make me ill?
Pale, shaking hands cling to the old timbrel.
A melodic pain, the kind honey can’t draw out.
And the whispering doubt, **** as sauerkraut

With a wave of my hand the swan of blood lands,
And the spear-din begins
With a noble glance the troops advance
Chieftains or kings, breakers of rings

You were never cautious with your art,
I was always careful with my heart
Unless I poured it out like a dove
Are you mourning me from heaven above

I am mourning you from hell below
I guess that freedom was not the way to go
And the old dried herbs sing from above my grave
I’ve never behaved, I’ve never been brave

With a wave of my hand I watched your blood land
On my ***** kitchen floor
Without a chance, in a frightened stance
No longer poor, I walked out the door
The final test, was it for the best?
No belt hook swings, pale, wicked things
My freedom came at the price of the flame

Farewell my lover,
Fare thee well.

I have no right to feel this way.
Everything is too loud, too much.
I want to cover my ears, but it gives little relief.
I tear at my hair, and the pain gives an anchor.
My patches are hidden, small secrets.
Mors ultima linea rerum,
a constant threat,
the sword above my head.
Not death itself,
but the inability to find peace.
Sleep is similar, but it is not death.
It is similar, Tarkovsky observes,
but it is not permanent.
Sleep is universal,
but so is waking.
The fool, shepherd, wise, and king
rise with the sun.
Mors sceptra ligonibus aequat.
Mors ultima linea rerum.

You don't see me.
You never see.
I do.
My eyes roam your curves,
fingers reaching,
never quite touching.
I wax poetic about your lips,
your tongue as it sweeps pink skin.
You see me then.
You know, and you tease,
rough leather around my throat.
You purr in my ear, and it echoes.
I still think about you,
constantly.
I miss you,
ache for you.
My eyes seek you out from miles away.
But do you remember me?
Do you see me?
Because I seek you out.
Because I see you.

Numbly perform before the crowd
the sign of the cross,
a bow before the altar,
a melody or two.
Why do they burn us?
We are no sirens,
and song is no witchcraft,
not the kind they douse with holy water.

Lift up your hands to the sanctuary
and bless,
But do not let them meet.
Do not praise.
Your God is not found in music and dancing,
though he cries for the horns,
begs for a drum,
weeps with longing for harp.

You give him a voice,
monotone with no emotion.
Is this how you hear him?
A drone in your ear,
harsh admonishment,
one voice,
or silence?

My God is music.
He sings in the breezes,
in the hum of the earth,
the clapping and stomping,
the praise.
He is the breath in my lungs,
the words on my lips,
the touch of fingers on string.
His voice is many,
raised up in song,
raised up in the praising,
raised up in the "Hallelujah! Amen!"

Why don't you hear him,
those with ears among us?
You are not deaf.
You are dead among the living prayer.

Something devilish
Antlers In The Churchyard,
your home is a forest of mirrors
voices clinging to shapes in the darkness
Swallow down the warmth
As it drips from your mouth you will mourn
Cry for your mother,
Who will touch you now?
No skin on your fingers
No leaves on your branches
The burn of rain in your bloodstream
The scream of wind in your endless thoughts
You are a God in a place you don't belong
something old among the concrete
long since buried
They locked you up
But you will be fed

When you close your eyes, restless dreamer,
what do you see?
A dusty blossom, a crown of feathers, claws reaching?
Do you hear music? Whispers? Darkness?
Pulvis et umbra sumus, my dear.
We are ravens in flight, the arrow chasing our wings,
reaching towards slumber.
We sleep, but do not rest.

You said that you didn't believe in anything,
but that you believed in me.
In truth, I believe in you more than I say.
I see more in you than I say.
When you fight me, fight so hard against hope, I see you.
I do not know what you have been through.
I do not know what has been done to you.
I do not know how to tell you
that your belief in me
means more than
the fire on your tongue,
or the laughter in your eyes,
or the darkness that you draw from me.
Though you do not apologize with words
you do
with softness in your eyes,
and the brush of rough fingers against my arm in passing,
the curve of my neck lovingly sketched with graphite,
You say that you would die for me,
but I do not want you to.
I would have you live,
vibrant and happy,
laughing,
the bottle lying forgotten in a corner,
your hand in mine,
breathing in the scent of turpentine;
because I would like to believe in us.

If you count the cracks
I will open my mouth for you
The injury
The injury,
falsely gaping
it doesn't fit and you count again
Look at my fingers
Stroke the edges
Feel the curves
How wrong can it be?
You press a hand to what's wrong
You hold my problems
Apples and Oranges
What if neither was real?
The inside is flesh
It yields
It yields
But if I do not ask you to count
my mouth will never have a use
Swallow my tongue for me
You put me in a place, but it isn't mine
Whose body is this?

I died for you many times,
blood spilled on more than one occasion.
I could list the times you stole my breath.
With your fingers in my hair, tangled,
I hated my curls.
You called me dearest.
Did you mean it?
You invited me in.
Did she want it?
I was cold. You were warm.
Did you feel it?
In the frost-bitten autumn, lips turning blue
from the cold,
from your kisses,
there was blood on the grass,
shrapnel in your heart.
You worry me.
You don't sleep.
Ink stains your hands like
mud from the battlefield.
It stains your soul,
hides your desires,
murky as the dangerous sea.
Sometimes when you kiss me
it tastes like salt water,
feels like lightning,
gale force winds.
I am not a hurricane.
I could never hurt you.
But I did.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
eyes fixed on yours.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
your hands traveling.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
a bullet in his side.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
the world changed forever.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
you walking away from me, to her.
My breath stopped forever.
You wish my blood would stain your hands,
that you could have been close enough,
that you could have protected the part of yourself that resided in me.
Your breath stopped in your lungs.
I died for you, one final time,
blood spilled on one final occasion.
They stole my breath.
I hated my curls,
but I loved you.

Spitting cherry seeds by the roadside. Late night Rocky Horror on the back patio.
When we listen to jazz on an old timey-radio, we don’t hear echoes of the past, not our Great Depression.
We hear disillusioned violence, a turn of the century.
They want to turn it on you, rest your body on the side of the road, the world a sepia photograph.
It develops slowly, darkness clinging to monotone like the smell of gin under the juniper trees.

In the morning the world will seem so bright, flamingos on the green
screaming at the technicolor tv fuzz as teens gut them with penknives. We won’t join in.
When I look at my face in the mirror, all I see is radio silence.

You look me in the eyes and spit,
          And I kick dust on the wet spot on the ground.
This is how we are, a conversation; you never cared to call me something like my name.
           I never cared to see you in any way but under my boot with blood on your teeth.
               There is no moon above us, even when the sun’s gone to hide at the nearest bar.
This is not a war that can be won with pickets and strikes.
The only way to end the battle
                                                Is that someone has to die.
        A standoff only ends when one is left standing, it’s the rules,
but you never did care for rules, and breaking is easier than bending.
               You never apologize and I never want to hear those words come out of your mouth.
            The sun’s gone to hide at the local bar and it drinks whiskey shots like water.
It has seen us fight.
            The moon doesn’t want to come out, stays tucked safe in its bed.
It has heard stories.
                         Only the stars act as referee, calling out which one of us died better.
            It’s all an act, a ******* contest, and you sure are good at wetting the ground.
                 I’m better at covering up where the bloodstains were,
                         stain chicken feathers red as the sunset, Please, I ask you,
Let him win one last time.

                               The hourglass broke, the sand mixing with the red clay,
And you claim to know that his time is up.
                 I claim to know that you’re a lying ******* who takes what isn’t his.
                        And you claim that I’m just a child,
                                           but children don’t know why their knuckles are
bleeding
                                           and children don’t get why their jaws hurt
                                           and children only bleed when summer is restless
                                           and children never pull real guns anyway.
          You brought a knife to a gunfight,
                 a gun to face the firing squad, a one child firing squad,
                    knees stuck together with blood and chicken feathers.

Please, you ask me,
Let me win one last time.

                     And I learn that breaking is easier than bending;
And I learn how my name sounds on your lips.

Burn his sigil
into soft flesh
of wrist or
maybe
of throat
to set free
the music
from the
Soul

A new refrain,
something fresh for the tongue.
A bright lemon in the wake of
chocolate
and chilis.
Something softer,
less harsh.
Not quite sweet.
I could never stand saccharine sentiment.
Not too sour,
acid leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Not ice cream.
Italian ice while walking the streets of Venice,
smiling and nodding at the men whose words we can’t understand.

We link our minds
you are our mother
Direct us to the sun
Art, Love, Music, Rebel
a Warrior, eyes open
Wide mouth muse, give us our religion
Moon salutation, give us new praise
Reconnect, Brothers
Sisters, Reconnect
All the people of the earth
come greet your creator
The sun made stars on her cheeks
and eyes as dark as her skin
Sweet fire of the spirit
you give us rebirth
you give us ***** baptism
Shake free your slave name
follow the beat of the drum
the universal rhythm
She screams and blood runs hot
She lowers herself to the ground
She stand high with the masses
A teacher of humanity
of jazz and blues
hip hop rimshot soul
Culture that may not be ours
Still welcomes you
if you learn to feel

He stands near the trees,
places a hand upon them and feels their dying breath,
The final sigh
as leaves circle, drifting to the ground,
a blanket on the forest floor.
Take off your hat, lonely boy
and mourn another year's passing.
The wind will scatter him like the leaves,
blowing him far from home,
far from the place where his heart lies.

I would rip apart your throat
with my teeth
and
swallow down your blood.
My mouth works through
muscle and
tendons and
bone.
My claws grow slowly,
as do my fangs,
and my appetite.
It cannot be sated.
I am Wihtikow,
less than man,
less than beast,
more dangerous
than both combined.

Dust smudges my glasses
and your freckles burn my skin.
Through panes of glass the colours swirl,
bright hue of your skin,
deep brown of your eyes,
all things you own and I may never possess.
Differences in feel of fit and flesh,
knuckles on bone,
knuckles on lips,
lips on lips,
lips apart, breathing in the dirt.
Dirt in lungs,
in ribs,
in flesh,
in agony as the sun burns on.
But the dust smudges my glasses
and I cannot see.
You freckles, spots of ash, burn holes into my heart.