Antennas sink,
anchors rise,
the sky is a Great White,
And the lands capsized.

Cold street, warm pub,
slits like neon--warm up,
smile from chin to jeans,
a warm V, warms me,
sour beer, sweet waitress,
a sad and teased egress.

I form a V with my digits,
and give it a kiss,
exhale hot into air that's frigid.
if only sweet waitress.

When the witch with many joints,
Jagged on autumn sky anoints,
From base black,burnt, long cold,
Evaginate entrance from spell of volt,
Two limbs with pillory choke,
Casting shadow,entrancing me--
Then I awake when I hear a moan,
And lo! lightning snaps the other bone.

I shall put the ' meaning of life"
at the center of my poems,
protected by paragraphs,
it shall be safe, unread,
and never known.

"So what are your eyes seeing?"
Only deaths of beautiful human beings,
while the hideous pass on by fleeing.
"So, in what do you believe?"
That to the back,
comes the knife from the sleeve.
and with your wife, he will sleep.
"If any, who do you pray to?"
Devil, god, wind--anything that is fatal,
or the unlikely, like a princess in the fable.
"In lieu of these things, there are not many options,
what do you see yourself being?"
A very lonely man, writer and tragedian.

Forsythia enflamed,
with not yet budded rose,
together in bed,
together they grow.

thorn on bark climbed,
coming of red rose,
but yellow flames,
fell away long ago.

Rose petals,
Become rose hips,
No golden beauty,
His petals slip,
A wedding photo,
a wedding kiss,
Perrenial memories,
They always miss.

And not for him,
She fits into wedding dress,
And not for her he will look his best,
Hot summer and early spring,
Meet and marry with no engagement ring.


Together in bed, they grow old,
hugging in the autumn cold,
no more vain red rose,
no more gold to behold,
Not blooming for bees not blooming for snow,
No blooming for others, nor blooming for show.

Mom what are these snails,
with blood and sweat trails?
lumbering mountians, hauling heavy shells,
jumping in beer--killing themselves,
Why do they still patrol
the garden flag poles,
writhing in pain,
salt in flesh--burning holes,
Mother, the neighbors have no flag,
but they have a saltshaker to wave?
crushed shell--only way they listen to them,
rejoicing--at salted skin--wetly glistening.

But I feel I must do the same,
Well before the recruiter came,
I know what he sells,
The salty brimstone of hell,
But these Blood Sweat Snails in the dirt,
Jumping on grenades,
Absorbing brimstone bursts.
Truly are the salt of the Earth.