The witch’s hour approaches-
What an unearthly time to be alive,
To open your eyes in fear,
To shut them back into illusion.

In your tired veins, yesterday’s sorrow sneaks through;
Do they burn with numbness?
Does the air caress your venomous pores?

This girl is a witch;
A witch is a saint,
For all the saints have confessed
To having sinned.
Can a god resign?
Can he seek forgiveness?
I hold him in the palm of my hand-
Tired creature,
Old with time,
Dark with worry.
There are no resurrections left to save
What is to be forgotten anyway.

The witch’s hour passes by—
The almighty can be put to rest once more;

Sleep in a mattress of distress,
Slip in oblivious bliss.

There are  fingerprints burned
into these kilns, leather hands

held  waists of women
with wide hips, who gave

birth to gaunt-faced children;
now, the bricks lay across

America’s streets,
forgotten.

The champion boxer
turned alcoholic

wandered the town's
railroad tracks until death.

After the funeral
his wife spent

her days thumbling
through newspaper

newspaper clippings
awaiting his resurrection.

return.

My tissues typed,
wired and sound
tested

waiting,
a waste for the longing I taste
in my eyes, on my tongue, on
the tips of my fingers,
time
lingers in doorways
on dull rainy days
waiting.

It's kiss and tell and
the road leading to hell
has peen paved with inventions
conceived in dark dungeons,

I'm on the back foot
burning the lights out,

if there's hope then I
hope that it finds me.

Crows feet
creases
lines of least
resistance

you tell me beauty fades,
misleading?

beauty takes us further down
the forest paths, passing dreams
that we
once splashed through and
to timeless glades where
beauty shines through.


In withered vines that once held promise
of the finest wines
time's ceaseless quest?
arresting beauty?

Shoot me
if I'm wrong,
but
doesn't beauty linger on the
flaming fingers of a dying heart?

A part of who we are is to see where we are,
sadly
there are those who never get that far
or get only
as far as the crow flies.

He said his Christmas Eve was good
in his recliner, TV cranked,
drapes closed,

bottle of Nyquil in one hand,
remote control, in the other,

waiting

for NBC News
to end and football
to begin.

Sandwich
no sand
a
tea but not witch

I feel slightly
Rodney
must have that
biopsy

Albert tells me
it's okay.

the wind from the East
could ******* away
not today though because
I'm weighed down by life.

glad of some gravity
who wouldn't be?
shouldering responsibility,
the new me

albeit without the biopsy.

Meanwhile under an
empty sky
emptier people are
passing me by.

I remain
unmoved in
the moving images.

There are rocks
With your finger prints on them

There are places
With the color of your eyes
Burning them down

There are memories
I wanted to last forever

There is pain
In the end of a needle
Just as there is love
In all people

There is a body
With your name
Your finger prints
Your colors
But no you.