I'm not who I was
The streets they will remember
Even if I don't

They had drinks every night
The clown and the trapeze man
Before every show the same thing

"I never laugh at my own jokes." The clown would say

"I never miss my mark." The trapeze man would come back with

So I sat in the crowd
Watching the two perform
Silent and still

The next night

"I never laugh at my own jokes."
"I never miss my mark."

But this night, the tent was different

As the trapeze man danced through the air
The clown found a match and set fire to his net
Stone-faced the clown looked up above as his friend would never miss his mark

When suddenly...
He did

The trapeze man began falling to the earth as though he had missed Her sweet crust

...silence fell.

I sat still.
I sat silent.

Then the clown....
The clown began to laugh....

My arms were crossed,
And the stars were crossed,
So I was cross
That you crossed me
And I crossed the line.

Flowers withered
At your august speech
And at August’s heat.  

Your love is bed sores.
The clothes I’ve worn
Still adorn the hardwood floor.
And on soft, sad nights
In the dark I was sworn
to selfish secrecy.

they beckon me
they whisper as I sleep
touch my shoulder
with unseen fingers
sending waves of dead static through my soul
the after
the in-between
the remaining energy
reaching for some connection
to their mortal coil
they find solace in my belief
a ground for their whispering pulse
the remnants of a soul once lived
the static that refuses to leave
completely

Photographs taken on glass plated negatives.
Capture moments such as the Hangman
in the town square with the crude cut eye holes
in a dusty burlap executioners hood.

Pictures tell more than just a story.

Magicians meet in secret.
They sit around with their deep hats.
Shirts worn with Mother of Pearl
square cut cuff-links on the
ends of deep sleeved, steam
pressed, thin cotton shirts.

They meet in silence and sit in a pentagon formation
awaiting a secret to be shared.
None ever are yet the meetings are still held.

Men and only Men who all consider themselves
apart from the Lower men with their Lower wives.
Whose children they see as gifts for their Gods.

Small funny hats and small strange
aprons and a long sleeve shirt with mother of pearl
square cut cuff links.
No secrets here are ever revealed.

Young Virgins with innocent white, long skirted dresses
wear Baby's Breath halos atop their combed,
braided hair for protection.
Running through fields of wild honey suckle
brushing the palms of their hands
along the opened flowers.
Spreading pollen as they move across the field.

A ****** faced stranger who wore his
guns hung low across the hips the way killers do,
watches from atop his restless stallion.
Gamebirds stood stone still with the grass
as the stranger fixed his eyes on the plains below.

With his gloved magic hand he feels
his square cut cuff-link through the
gloves worn leather hyde and
prides himself on his patience
before moving in for the ****.

How can the public be so judgmental when all they know is lies.

I'll be that failure I wear that title well.
I won't cast a VOTE I'm not part of their lies nor do I support the whole deception.

I need to see the place beyond the ice where giants still build pyramids and chimeras all fear the wrath of God.

I'm headed south for the winter and to save myself from this system I'll never be apart of without a number around my neck and shackles across my heart.

I need to be where corn is eaten three times a day, siestas are expected and people are the color of the earth.
I want to die amongst the depleted Monarchs and the migrating
Quetzal Hummingbirds.

I wish to put my mind down for its final rest in a place where lies are not respected and the truth is nothing but the truth.

Somewhere thats far away from here.
A place that does'nt feel the need to claim its self the freest of the free while chained to things like laws, debts and the television screen.

I'll be where I don't speak the language and the people don't care.
I'll spend some time in old Mexico drinking away all my bad
memories, dancing with ficheras, making real Love to ****** and finding a way to start over.

A new way after I break free of the lies, bring myself to an end and build up the courage to leave you all behind.
So I can start myself anew.

Cracks in the sky
They tell me not to look
My best friend bled from her knees when she left home
We went back to my apartment
And filled it with static
The neighbours broke like china
Scattering on their doormat
I think the world is an egg and I was born to outgrow it
I ripped my flesh on the tarmac
Skating down the subway
Mother hadn’t cried in years
But now its pouring
I part my hands and let my breath out
Again and again and again
It’s going to crack soon
The world will wake from a bad dream
And forget we ever existed
Step in front of a train
Take off your shirt
Maybe we’re all just sick
Filling our aches with distractions
Turned on like televisions
Netflicks, endless repetition
We go on like that
Running our sleeves along lighters
The sun opened its mouth today
Nobody cared
Too stressed over the price of cigarettes
I can’t talk
I buried my head long ago
In the Mariana Trench of Tokyo
Where we buried grandpa because we ran out of funds
And had to live off stale bread from the school cafeteria
We should have stopped
Just given up and collapsed
Filled the streets with ambrosia
Cracked our own heads awake