something is wrong with the pendulum
above; my chest has been carved
into new designs;
I am awake with a claw in my head;
I am asleep with nutrient-rich vision;
last night I dreamt
that gnats clouded out from my mouth
as though they were seeding the earth
and I was stupefied; when I awoke,
cold sweat in both hands, I recognized
that apocalyptic mornings
with magma-like light
dripping new over dew,
and the cold stone of night
are a separate entity
from the splinter inside of me
give me that space between
hunter and hunted
where even in mastic war
one can chew stillness.
A mountain hemorrhages cliffs of
sunlight just outside my dark front door;
it is the fifth wonder of my universe,
a morning marvel
framed by coffee
and cigarette smoke; it is
love, with hair of lush pine needles,
and a chest like an arm of dirt:
in your too-old two old
in your dry desert clothing,
why does the fog beat you
like an immovable heart?
How can something so old
be dying; is the sky an
more canyon than harbor,
or ship without captain
are we all
all we are
at the end, or is there more?
Detox needed, salt enzymes, mother Apple cannot purge
Somewhere under the soul is hidden
Deep heavy air, speleothem drips, blind salamanders fish
White light is in the mind, refresh, delete, refresh
Hardrive needing replaced, mother board comes on like a crippled play thing
Eve is there, canines sunk in the mother apple
Pages sunk in
Sun's of God
Has now refurbished and has now encoded for the next restructure
Give me dark to balance my bright light!
I'll take my humor dark, my mocha dark,
My midnight starlight hike refreshing
Like a stroll in a fragrant park
For what is the flower without the root?
Festooned in the pitch black rich soil?
And what is the play
In the bright light of day
Without the ache of practice and toil?
Written April 2014
I'm the crumpled soda can you used to kick around when you were a kid;
I'm the shot glass you emptied into the pit of your teen angst;
I'm the wine bottle that's going to shatter over your skull and **** us both.
i tend to lose myself
in the smallest things -
i surround myself
so i don't lose my mind,
yet i cry myself to sleep
every night with the
thought of losing everyone
i lose myself in you, too -
your eyes are pools of
green waters held by
your hands, where life
flows along the veins
and creases in your palms
i tend to lose myself,
but there is no need
for you to worry -
if you ever find me lost,
i will come back to you,
Target of lonely affections
Vessel of unwanted desires
Adored and idolized
Distant and ignorant
I cling to my delusions
That you might love me in turn
imagined moment vivid
split second prior scythe’s felling contact—
panic, fear gripped soul, constriction
shadowing hand clutched chest
the final occurrence
my last breath
a life’s span of years
the reaper’s patient approach
confident encroach, task assigned
above reproach, his grim stagecoach
my taxi toward mystery forward
the grind of wood spoke wheels amidst
drop of steady hoof against
an astral road cobble stone
the anthem of death performed
by angel orchestra the
conductor my heart ceasing beat
what memory does surface
allowing in moment to bask as
my life to fade?
sons, opportunity misspent
a wife, her caring consideration unmet
parents, who lack receipt of admiration
the instance impossible to own preparation
to say that which ought be said
a careful avoidance of things that not
rather plead for one last word
a beggar to show heart’s comprise
adoration without question at
time of demise
love, more than a hug
but time spent
love for them—taught shown felt
love and its spread
upon which would serve
death’s beautiful bed
to take the hand of His angel
rather the reaper to dread
a confident smile knowing
in arms their embrace
will be felt once again
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.