With miles to go before I sleep
and sounds around risen from the deep;
If I heard them, should I keep
the memories from haunting?

And as the grey rolls into black,
can you see the white hiding in the back?
The foundation that let’s us hold fast
and gives the hope to make it last.  

I see faces in the pages
jumbled between line spaces.
Hallucinations become engrained in
my vision while I listen

to the clack of chalk
scribbled
spat from fingers
and thoughts
dribbled.

Deep inside the heart collides
With the majesty that is the sun.
And polyps grow on feet below -
Where the grandeur is forced to shun.

Grey gritty gravel gets jammed
Between my toes,
And flies through a rolled up twenty
To stay wedged far in my nose.

If sinus’s are clogged like pours,
Scratched by a Cheetos finger,
The rocks get stuck and Id mocks
While the crush starts to linger;

Numbs the cavity where inside lives
A thousand hungry hippies
Sitting still until they see
A cloud up on a water lily.

So set out to feed their queen bee
Whom lives inside the skull
(And) demands, commands, yearns and pleads
To feel that numbing null.

It’s been a while
since I’ve dipped
my toe
in the Devil’s Spring.

For last I did
it took a week to realize
I’d already dived,
headfirst, in.

How now to control
such endless lust,
which tempts both fiends
and godly men?

Can trust be laden
on the backs of those
who sit on shore
or wait in other glen?

Only night coming soon
will tell for sure;

The moon sheds light
upon what
real men tend
to be.

Effulgent, she stands in the stands and demands
for her rights that were ripped from her calloused red hands
but calamity falls and hits down like a gavel
and the thread from her dress gets pulled and unraveled.
Her serpentine body, verdant til plucked
from the branches she clings to and prays for good luck.
The hyenas, voracious, yapping volubly
at her ankles while she tries and tries to scream, but
nothing comes out and she feels her bough become friable
she knows that these fiends wont be held liable
dropping contumacious only made her life worse
hit in the face he cursed and then hurt her
she burst in tears, ‘******!’
Hoping they’d stop, but they only went further
and nobody heard her.
No superman hiding til he’s plucky enough.
No Samaritan testing to see if he’s got the guts.
Now brittle she’s turned, but only physically;
She’s still adamant inside, strong mentally.
A couple months go by and one day she realizes
she’s not alone alive.
And forced to be together to survive,
she decides to take both of their lives.
I wish I could say
all those men were put away,
but they ran and ran for days.
Gone, and without a sound they stayed.
And now she’s
4.
5.
6 feet underground today.

Radiator creaks like the aching hull of an ancient ship.
The sea pulled across and alongside its' mouth by drivers yearning sleep.
The grey provides the sea, but shows no interest, has no tell.
So the swell ebbs, flows, subsides - unsure until it goes.
There is but one view, if you can make it out through the mist, of other towers, masts stiff, breaking through the surf.
No one else seems to care to look, nor try to break the scene.
And ships stay still like rocky cliffs until they're worn away.

The sandy floor lies a foot below
where air and water meet.
And salty mist,
like an awkward first kiss,
lies hesitant, inbetween.

Slowly they touch,
and mix on collision,
to a drummer’s beat
and it’s rhythmic rhythm.
Faster, it goes,
As both move in waves.
And back in,
to mix again,
with the salty mist they crave.

I am the sea;
the endless, motionless,
living vastness
that surrounds and
engulfs…

Winds bellowed angry hymns
but braving choirs she stood,
In the monastery with windows broken
inside the monk’s dark hood.

The shattered blues, sunny golden,
colored glass lay hidden, choken.
Gasless cars lay indisposed,
stuck in quicksand; growing cold.

Blood ****** in blackest charcoal night
and empty tanks lie heavy in the heart.

Welcome to Marlboro Country
where
smokestacks leave a dreary,
grey encrusted sky.
Lead envelopes the haze
as silver lining to a cloud.
And all the tiny puppets
line up and take their turn,
flying high through the smog,
twirling and spinning
but land disheveled;
Broken.
And get in line again.  

They watch from tall windows,
each a suit and a grin,
their malevolent faces
show thoughts from within.
Wealth over health over morals over
Death.
Greed even trumps their daughters’ last
Breath.

It’s funny how things come to be
(I dreamt daily of her swollen *******)
Yet drones lay heavy-hearted
pigeon-*****
on bills left to collect.  
Sure oil slicks slip down
through gates clogged with trash;
(her nervous laughs rang in my head)
Yet with end is where it lasts.
Tomorrow maybe I’ll drop by
and scrape the surface clean,
it seems better when you don’t see
(Yet I still meet her in my dreams).

I can't sleep again
that neural itch.
A tangled web of thought-streams
running like passing bullet trains
only to
spring back
on the knots they've made
and sleep lays caught in the net like a fish;
Still floundering til at last it gives.
I wish I could smoke.
Something about watching it curl...
like an entity climbing upon itself as it grows.
A fading vine accelerated into visible motion,
its' only support itself.
I wish I could hold onto some things that way.
Nothing stains quite like years of smoke,
nothing seeps in quite as well.
But for support of hidden creatures at my feet
I'd surely curl the same,
but never stick since blown out
the window
again and again.

Skipping over stars like they were stones,
bones wrought under flesh like iron.
One missed stepped would seem to be
one less opportunity desired.