I walked and spoke in whispers
and prayed for kingdom come
our mothers removed our splinters
and begged not to come undone

We wandered wished and savored
a man had come and gone
our fragile bones were withered
bleached by fractured sun

I came I saw I cowered
heard rumors of holy storms
set fire to the stables
in hopes of staying warm

Lost once more in twisted paths
witness'd angels been reborn
step'd softly past the prostrate men
souls unbent, untorn

Gleaming through the crooked cracks
upon the whetted wall
testimonies of ancient stars
condemning those creatures that crawl

We bent our backs we tied our knots
we toiled for daily bread
with eyes downcast and humbled tongues
we sanctified our dead

Now retire into the depths
from whence we came before
with penance paid and duty done
we fight off sleep no more.

Makeshift mannerisms and blood composed of fire and dirt
streaming through my wrist and fingertips
learning to breathe once more
a feeling of passion in the midst of such monotony.
Modesty, your majesty, modesty;
Sometimes it's acceptable to do your best.

Concerned with cancer and algorithms
Love drawn from oak
Pressure the unfeeling, torture the joyous.
Do it as it must be done
Forget your phantoms.
Let them sleep, descend.

the flimsy white of the walls are only
so broken
up by an old
faux wood
bookshelf and a desk.

the closet's a happy blue
challenging anyone to notice it
hidden in the corner.

it's here
where I'm planted under my bed
where I've retreated under heavy fire
where I'm unwashed and indifferent
where hunger is confusion

that I spend so much time
thinking of other _s
as if it's only
a matter of time before
I conjure other __s
into being
through sheer force of
desperation.

It's a four step walk
from the chair
to where I can ****
without undue consequence.

I can't see the sky
but I know
it's gray
today.

Pumas race around the room
clawing up my books and desk
without disturbing anything
ignoring me out of spite
for being unable
or unwilling
to follow
their movements.

Eight steps to the kitchen
four more and I can stare
into the cupboard
for a solid minute
before I remember
I've eaten shadows all day

This room is host to
invisible flowers
long decayed.
My hands and feet are fish.

I haven't known an
affectionate touch
in months.

I hide in basements
where the people I see
have such nice things
to say.

There's a skeleton lamp turned up bare
against a grainy wall
casting an unwashed child's silhouette
over my chair.

There's an antique
TV set
mesmerized the kid with
cartoons that have been
laundered by too many
reruns
as to have lost some of their
color.

The kid's curly black hair
dark solemn eyes
that he borrowed from his father
he won't know
for a number of years.
Maybe he'll evade
refined realization
until circumstances improve –
if circumstances improve.

"Go ahead," says his mother
from her pockmarked armchair
as I finger my lighter.
"He's used to the smell."

Her eyes flare up
holding mine
as she herself lights
and for a moment she becomes
a more vibrant caricature
as those characters
on the screen

The cheap metal tip goes cold again
and the former flame
seems to have taken more of the
remaining light
from her eyes.

Muted –
I could stay in this room
forever
passing by unnoticed
but for a gnat of impatience
and it terrifies me.

Living entombed
with this deflated woman
with this lackluster soul
and this baby
taking after his
mother.

There's a phantom feeling
of my hair graying
but only because
the dawn broke over
and it takes so much energy
to fight such things

and I'm so tired
all of a sudden.

So she passes the torch on
to me.
Nobody's going
anywhere
tonight.

I'm having a hard time saying anything
but exactly what I mean.
Enough time alone can do that to you
I'm sure other things can do that to you too.
Like reading bleak poems
broken up by tales of deranged love
and relationships based on *** and abusive chemical indulgence

I have a hard time saying what I mean
indirectly
leaving thoughts open to interpretation
is difficult
when you forget why
abstraction or
subtlety
is important
and why
that makes such small things as
wasting away
in a fog of alcohol, smoke, and temporary loves
so ****** beautiful
and so ****** ugly.

This is not easy
progress is dauntingly slow
I will persevere