The tempo is in the calm.
Much how lightning keeps her thunder in suspense.

My private thoughts are in the wind
Between the spoken word and the microphone.

Temples have no god.
The desert drowns the cactus and the snake the same.

Caverns tune their Hymns to Mars
To harmonize the choir.
Strange...Fruit Bats lose their radar and collide
With mangoes, more than Fate.
And People think of Stunning
As a tazer and a can of Mace.

And nothing is more hopeless than attempting.

When you're counting,

lose your place.

When the monkey cracks your Abacus
It figures
you'll improve mistakes.

Blunder into Wisdom
With more open arms
than Shiva

When you pray.

A brouche of thorns in the throat
Spinning hateful
In fierce revelation, shredding prayers
Before they petition the corpse
Of God...

A riverbed, parched into blight-
The husk of a once great deluge
Crawling through a desert of open wounds
To an ocean, long vanished from the Soul...

Locusts drum the impoverished dome of heaven
Gnawing the roots of Stars

Leveling Beauty.

it is december when the wheat sun is wane and the letters stop coming
in groups of three
and the windows creak in morse code and steam clings to every sigh.
it is december when the most of you is lingering -
just above the tinkling crisp
of shadow versus snow...

the origin of hope is everywhere and frozen.

There was a house:
Allen Avenue, 04103

As far as I can remember
It wasn't ever a home.

It stood empty
and decayed along the busy road:

A reminder in white peeling paint
and single-pane windows
of what the neighborhood was.

All through my childhood it remained,
and decayed, and observed.

And the summer I came home,
freshman year of college done,
so was the house.
So was the home of my childhood.