the cave-in started
with honesty,
a promise
an admiration of agency,
of power and pride.

it was felt for miles
yet went unnoticed
the surrounding area
laughing
"I don't understand,"
a birthday at the next table,
a crying child.

wine bled through the cracks in that cave
as the flow of native water
slowed to a trickle
and receded
to make way for
desperation
at least so it seemed.

weeds and smiles
withered and revealed
selfishness,
loathing,
pain and fear.

what appeared there
in the collapsing darkness
of the once rigid--
and now compromised--
shelter of those
warm catacombs
was,
in fact,

hatred

layers upon layers of sedimentary disgust
that rendered those systems
inhospitable
uninhabitable
anger
and wine
laughter

"I'm not coming back."

i am
settling
floating
suspended in the unsustainable
adrift in fire
and blood
missing parts
the predecessors,
victims,
of unholy theistic ritual

being whole
was a luxury
oneness
a virtue
taken for granted
in the box
we lived and grew
the comfort in the chill
of a fimiliar place,
communities
cracked apart and tossed
separated and forgotten
the box was gone
and elsewhere was hell

to be thrown to the lukewarm sea
facing the uncertain panic of
no more
in no time
we disappeared,
used and consumed
one more brief, familiar chill
stripped of the flesh,
i am

small

There’s a deep forest path that
lingers
just for a bit,

somewhere between stable and healthy

and in walking that path
one may find himself
growing

much like the foliage;
trees, yawning
and vines, curious, spread wild

breathing life
and air
and motion

until the path disappears
and diminishing greens
turn to sullen brown

and the desert looms

deep breaths are unyielding
motion is muddy
it doesn’t feel quite right

seeing forever isn’t as grand
when there’s not
much to see

it’s so much bigger
than the forest seemed to be,
isn’t it?

there’s a living reality of
fallibly hopeful distraction—
sheltered squatters—
residing above a room where
everything important is angry,
not easily suffocated.
the warm polyester of a busy mind
is sick with monotonous fear
that the residents below
will expand their decay,
raging in a panic until the walls collapse
and the nails in the floorboards are
upturned and weaponized;
a clever, persistent enemy.
this unbearably,
infallibly hopeless
struggle.
there are paintings on the walls
and books on the shelf,
plants on the windowsill in the late afternoon.
i’m worried these will die too.

the gift in a dilapidated
two-story country home
empty
for miles
through holes in the walls
on either side
blackened supports
and ramshackle comfort
tackled by fire
caressed by rain
you can see through to the second floor
if you tilt your head,
expose blood subways,
let your hair
grasp at spine
the fault of past residents
mirrored in big blue eyes
a world of green and brown
surrounding, no,
growing from
this pin-***** destination
left to the wind,
to the quiet
the underscored call
of persons,
stronger than I,
who knew they were finished
and walked away.
who saw the green and the brown,
and looked at the home,
once warm, I'm sure,
and thought,
"there's so little here,
compressed,
with an expanse beyond
so much friendlier than
brittle walls,
tender floors,
metal and wood."

so they left

and rightfully so.

somewhere;

close the door.
engine.
headlights too.
it's dark at this time of year.
to think, that to live is to be lost.
north, east,
orientation is confident;
with a destination, bold.

roads are busy.
other drivers, bold themselves.
to go and stop.
those stopped are not those going;
a permutation of an uncertainty,
decision one of a thousand.

a left at the light means The Waiting Game,
a test of patience.
enough to pander one's position on a map.
relative to home, not very far.
a few minutes,
the answer.

the eternal search for an answer,
emulated and abstracted in a metal box,
the pilots so sure of their actions.
they're sinking so far in to the game now that
their origin's memory is too obscure,
to see the irony is to think too much.

headlights.
engine.
open the door.
tired hands and feet inherit a mission--
next objective, in this much time.
a stone path is a suggestion,
it'll do.
who is to argue with the ground underfoot?
skilled men though they found the answer on their search
and were so kind as to lead the next.
wrong as they were, it's the thought that counts.

of course the mistake is made in kind,
a pilot's success and the search complete.
a sigh.
and the resigned optimism that perhaps instead
a bit of reconnaissance is enough for now.
maybe to find oneself here is success.
would they buy that?

here
relative to home, not very close.

on moonlit nights
concrete beds and
pillows of flora sing
songs

empty cold winds beg
company

starlight's wingspan
warm, maternal
and cooing that shares that
macabre bedtime fairytale love

a silence that has become
a wool-knit cap of late
hours,
smoke,
bitter drink

an excuse really,
for desperate wandering
and the freedom to stand still
pacing stagnant

shallow grey rainwater neighbor waves
nods

the choice, holistic,
to breathe and live
or sigh and think,

be a man--
adult--
problem-solve;
industrial

untrimmed grass,
the words of a friend
the gate's rusted

repeat a tired fantasy tune
with all the time in the world,
just enough to waste
to search for answers or for self

bundle up
the alarm is set.