“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late
And how can man die better
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods”



Soft murmurs along the front line crackle like a broken prairie plough,
The maples and oaks snapping with
Every burst of the cannon.
Crested breaths choked out by
The ferocious blasts of this entrenched
Jungle.
Shrieks punctuate the deathly silence,
And sobers the divisions thirst for war.
I, a dead soul among the living.

The soft wind at night is the nefarious fingers of death,
Soaking the earth and ****** boughs
Of the old oaks with the veins
Of golden purity.

(I am standing on an eagles skull.)

I can hear the Rebel yell beyond the tree line,
BLASTING the barreling notion of liberty,
Stacked within our Union souls.

A Bundren coffin takes form in the mist beyond the wasteland.

My kin lay wait at home,
Shall I return one day and parade through pastures
And creeks until the days grow old
and so shall I.
With kin side by side.

My vacant mind floats off to distant lands along the
timbered forests of the Free North.


Orations from my Grandfather resonate like wind chimes
Rattling among the inner confines of my sanity,
Strewn images flash like the lines of Virginian regulars,
A sparse reminder of my ever so soon fate
In the Wilderness.

Those magnificent sunsets, riveting
to the bone.
I walked into the prairie,
and felt like the cool wind on a Saturday night.
I can see the old rusted behemoth.
It sits, lost in the wastebasket of oblivion.
Tall whisky willows, tower in front, their boughs
blocking it's menacing complexion.
A hummingbird approached me.
The shuttering of the old clock in the truck,
fell to a lonesome silence.

Glazed and soft
We relish the idea
The consuming frost
Armies pile through to victory
Home once more
The sun drives deeper into the soil
Reaching for that equilibrium,
upon which he will never attain.
Screaming for light and air,
Never to be heard, the irony
You form the souls of men
Growth and speed, perplexing
Isolation to the core
Steel chains release the pressure
Frigid toes, the memories of an era
Proposing to be dead, only saving the beauty,
Glazed and Soft

Objective clear insight,
Oh so close.
Day upon day,

I peer.

Galloping through the maze,
You are unattainable
to some.
The day has come,
I set down a bread crumb,
A single tree stands in the orchard waiting
to be picked.
Hinges are oiled up.

A wall once stood.
No more

Four blocks, yet more to come
Derelict hopes are crushed by the
Perpetual, cacophonous blast of the
Somme.
My brethren wail for fears their mothers will pay them a visit.
I juxtapose my own existence in this war machine.

(I can hear them in my sleep)

My ears are ringing a ballad,
A barber shop quartet echoing;
Paradox’s that fester in the inferno.
A ticket to my ever-so soon visit,
Rage.

Am I but mere kindling to the flames of the Somme?

I wander this lonely treck of trail, and watch the lilacs shrivel up and die.
The son of Zeus shall not walk even handed upon these trenches plains.


I will not bear this weight, no more.
I will not perpetuate my life in this
Wasteland, no more.
I will not revel for my past futures that I so
Foolishly lost, oh no more.
I will not tense one more muscle for this boulder, it will have to wait, no more.
I will not set precedent that the human race can
So easily be pulled into the pasture and shot, no more.
I will not bleed one more time for the cruel, oh no more.
This heartless  world will have a beat once again.
For I am Sisyphus and I will find meaning.

Wandering through,
Sidewalks freshly paved.
The cliff never seemed so close,
the obelisk reflects a bright light,
no one looks.
The ground begins to shake,
time to go to work.
The leaves fall,
The tides crash upon the shore.
The man approaches his fate,
Looking-
Rocks and minerals
Flys lives are never long
Flowers burst from the ground.
Why?
Trains run by, the sun obsolete.
When?
I sometimes approach the cliff,
Look-
The world never seemed so far.
The grass grows longer and we fall
into its grasp.
Equations explain why but not when?
We are stuck between somewhere and nowhere.
"Follow me."
Indecisive yet curious,
I sometimes approach the cliff and
Look-

I will never understand,
Nor should I.
The deep meanings and complexions of a
Feminine mind.
It lures and tangles itself within,
As if you are some instrument
To play.
My undying love for you wavers as proud
As the Stars and Stripes.
And as loud as a choirs might.
My love is as if blinders are placed upon my eyes and I can only see you.

For know I work my forward,
A miner chipping away,
But unwary of his direction in the chasm of love.
Your untimely gesture has surely crushed my spirit,
For now.
But the sun will rise, and I will chip way
Once more.

Everyday, he would go
into the fields.
Stare into the sun, and
Ask it why?
The sun would not reply.
Like a perplexed mannequin, it stared back at
The man.

The way into excitement
Halting at the very essence
I round the bend, beyond the tree
Hello
Eye to eye, the reaching emotions
Industrious yet simplistic
Whom I have met before
Hooves upon my hands
How we forget the large tree
The impregnable abyss captures I
Oblivion

I long for the days forgotten,
Days huddled along the bed of an old swamp,
For days old and rotten,
Days boundless, crushed by his weightless stomp.
Nor let me arouse the familiar occasion,
To tones of crackling ends,
Let me not wither in sensation,
Rather wander until I reach the old bends.
Is it all round and fair?
To care for his certain demise,
But torment and rattle deep within my lair,
Groaning my ascent into his holy skies.
I too shall wait among his prescence,
The Creator of darkness and fate, I shall know my essence.

For those red ripe apples.
They sit, perched upon the counter.
Not even a breeze breaks their state of mind.

Trails of desire, and fortunes of love,
augment my sole goal,
To be with you.

Your beauty compels the most
Omnipotent of gods,
Who bow at the ray of your prescience.
Your voice quells all wars,
And fine tunes statovarius violins.
As your voice a fine piece of Mozart, carefully crafted to sooth my soul into slumber,
Where love sleeps.
Your smile that greets morning runners,
Lights the earth,
And rotates around to warm my soul.
As your smile a beautiful display of natures finest, a Starry-night.
Your ambience shelters all.
The beautiful prairie horse to my life;
determination to be(me).
As your ambience the tender gratitude a soldier will carry in battle, his final hours.
In the crucible of love and desire(for(you)).
Knowing you will be there(with me).
My love.

I pursue this career,
To speak softly but carry a big stick
The sun is speaking to me,
Unfolding it's wrinkles.
Humanity is faced with an existential-
Problem.
Death, Destroyer of worlds
I pursue this career,
To write the blueprint
It only ends when it ends.
Stones to dust, morbid yet heavenly
Whom displays such power.
Wire begins to curl.
Seeds begin to blossom.
The atom and all of its beholding's
Is awe inspiring
Reminiscing of the olden days
I sometimes peer upon the stars
For which do I respond?
I pursue this career,
To be the only one
I face the ever impending train,
into the soft blue sky.

Tall wispy willows lightly tapped the window
as I lain across the floor.
The green and red flashes, stimulated
my delicate cornea ever so.
Warmth overran my skin, warming me to the core.
I could hear the rattles of claws and nails
across the wooden door.
My family laughing hysterically,
like a bumbling nest of bees.
All ready for the night,
Where Saint Nicholas will pay a visit.


Our Odyssey continues to the tundra,
where the snowmen meet and greet.
My brothers are fighting in the snow
like the Great war had just broke out.
The skeleton trees, lay dormant,
white powder piled high upon their boughs.
I look out upon the neighborhood,
mountains of snow, ready to be conquered.
I glance at my brothers,
They dash and bash their way forward,
Into the cool winter night.

As we wake, the smell of eggs and pancakes.
My father's cooking, has never been malice.
My grandmother stands outside, just beyond the reaches of our door.
Her gentle, sweet charisma, welcomes us all,
Beckoning to the call,
of Saint Nick’s gifts.
My brothers and I, cheer and jeer down the hall.
With the simple clap, fluttering little hands,
Our parents make their way downstairs.

The nebula of presents congregates below the towering tree.
A sign of Nick’s humble visit,
in the depths of night.
“Ranger school isn’t preschool.”
“Ranger school isn’t preschool.”
My father who served, served for his children's rights,
All of our rights.


Christmas night, comes a feast of exotic flavors.
The luscious chocolate, insinuates more to come.
Abundant sources of sweets is never perishable,
Brownies so sweet they would satisfy all of humanity.
I will savor the taste for decades to come.

Those willows still tap, every Christmas,
My house still warm and sweet.
My father still resembling those who fought before him.
Those coveted times, where Saint Nicholas delivers without qualm or inquiry.
Those coveted times, where my family is my family.
Those coveted times, where I am from.

I feel the shutter of my curtains,
Stare into the Madness,
Where curiosity and dissidence
lay side by side.

My bed quivers in the early mornings
Light,
Pausing only to Juxtapose the desolation of
my
Sanity.

The floorboards beneath my very feet
Tremble as my consciousness
lay siege to the rational.
As if a sadist has purged the inner
mechanisms
of my Rage.

The stars stand still,
perhaps a welcoming message to my
overwhelming question.
Do we wander the world transfixed on doom,
or see that goodness and glory penetrates the
deepest of trenches?

The ceiling fan bumbles it's absurd existence
into my frontal lobe,
its tense relationship with the air,
Massacring it's way along the roots
of my
liberty.
Perplexing the cause for which I
have lost my thoughts to,
And cultivating the seeds
of
my
MADNESS.

At the time between dusk and dawn,
I was caught strolling,
Not rolling,
But merely walking down a cobbled,
Shadowed walkway.
The echoes of light, bright
Store front lights
Ceased to exist.
A frigid, uneasy breeze started to crawl up my trousers and into my heart.
I became dark.

A shadowed, hallowed car appeared,
a mere apparition I feared.
A figure appeared, appeared right before my eyes,
It merely sat, and leered.
For it sat and analyzed me,
Sat and put me in an exhibit,
Sat and sketched my very fears.

I peered into the inferno, I came near,
Near to the mirage.
Greeting but not meeting, I wallow in
Sorrow, the despicable fallout, of my demise.

We walked you and I,
I sat, sat in that very seat,
In the old behemoth.
Where time meets space,
And fates meet.

I gaze upon thee,
And all I see,
But a mere particle of dust
In the cacophonous dark sky.
Our rambunctious attitude startles it's
calm state of mind.
Sending it into an uproar,
Of fire and fury.

The desolation of all known,
A certain redemption of all those alone.

Eons of discourse erode at this star,
Until he lie,
But a mere pile of dust.

We glance over and all we see...
We loved them so dearly,
Their eyes shining brighter than the sea.
(So warm, their love perpetuates within us,
Eternally.)
We bask in the memories of their
Finest hours.
Knowing, that they are resting,
In the darkest of sleep.

Two songs rage into the blue set sky,
As birds make their way to die.

When did I become so foolish and fall into the despicable trap of love?
I wander now, angry,
But still haunted by the ghost of lust and loathe.
I can see it sometimes wander into my room and stare at me as I sleep.
It's fore long glare exhumes ignorance and sabotage.
It analyzes me, selling false narratives for the cheap price of $5.
I wonder you know, how you feel, how you sleep?
I sometimes wander the prairies of dreams in search of that oh so delicate ring, that I will never find.
They call me Sisyphus now, my absurd attempts squandered as the boulder I am so
Determined to push, tumbles down
The hill and into the abyss.
I had faith, but now in the frigid darkness of a cold winter storm,
I feel alone.
Marooned upon an island and eaten piece by piece by piece.
Slow roasted like a pig.

You are my flower, that bursts from the seams of reality and tells me that their is true beauty in this world.
My one.
You are the cool breeze on my neck in the deluge of a summers day.
You are the warmth that brings life back to me.
You are my green light at the end of the dock,
Childhood to my Holden, fate to my Oedipus.
You are love that will pull me out of the inferno and carry me to the banks of a river.
You are my essence.

(The permafrost will thaw.)

Those muttering men,
Those men who've wandered the
land lonely and weary.
They conglomerate in the crevices
of nighttime bars and ***** motels.
They wander the streets,

Alone.

The state of augmentation and reality,
Blurry desires, and houses that are never built.

Blank pages drift down deserted days of furloughs and death.

They stare into the mirror,
Look through the pages of the fallen,
And find Oedipus staring right back.

The man sat precariously
Between malice and forgone destitute.

Marooned in his rambunctious desire to view through a port, nothing but envy.

Shattering wine glasses and screams into the inferno uphold this one man's bough of uncertainty.

Tralfamadorian trauma eats away at his grotesque painting of the rational.

He walks but an invisible eye among strangers.

For these paths we walk upon,
I ask thee, thy truthful
To pardon our untimely
Entrance.