Flaming vortex cast iron heart
Breaking open the spheres of news
Thin as a rail where we balance
Making the rain howl singing that
Gutter roll through streets painted in
Black tar mud. Hear that rain, hear the
Rain, hear this sound pounding away
And away during these summer days

Vessel crafted skin peels from fire pits
Drenched in black dying tradition
On the cross the christening of the one who
Paid for us all to play the game winces
As the sun - ensnared in the blue sky like a
Marlin out of the Pacific - makes its way
To a shore dressed in fishermen, basket
weavers; lovers who say they have never loved
Like this before, lying through the hems of
Their blouses and trousers

Heaven is full, they have issued out all the
Tickets, the gates have closed and even the
One's never sinning are left out in the cold
Without a jacket or umbrella. Compliments
tossed into those cloudy gutters, demons
Whispering that there is always more room
In hell - the demons are right

Canary crest wrinkles as the running wife
Takes her bike out for a mid-afternoon ride.
The blonde in her hair shows that she's
Scared, and where the guitar man plays, he
Writes a lyric in of how spellbound dreams
Can make a good man bad and how the
Blonde's who get away are replaced only
With misery and regret and shameful acts of
Drunken nights, harder mornings, lonelier afternoons

It is where the difference in the light that
Makes my eyes slight and my hands tremble
Not knowing if the end result is going to be alright.
When I speak from here, at the table all alone, my
Bones crunch inside of me like the cavemen round'
Here that once roamed free. There is something in
The air that makes my lungs shrink and my mind think.
Somewhere in this ****** city there is a life force
Invisible to us all. The battle was dying in a vine of
Life only the wine would be able to fix, and all this
Sickness that comes forth from this typing makes
The writhing worm that is me, calm down a little,
Making these thoughts not so jagged and brittle

The effort from the ringing bell toll shows
That the stones that built us can also be torn
Down. The stream, though long and at times
a mysterious, punishes the heart when one seeks to
Form facts from where there are none. And speaking
When not spoken to forces the corner of my mouths
To break like the ice of a coming storm, arctic like
Snow madness mincing your skin to shreds as
The bread in the box has gone off and gotten wed

Candle light adhere to the voice within yourself. In
Souls we capture the only willing part of us left. When
Whispers leak through lined wall, remember the
Crush that never sparked, that did not escape and
Never began. Lakes were once dried up, but they
Will one day be filled again so the trout in their
Waters can swim and the leaves from the trees may
drift down onto their waters in the Fall, slowly
swimming towards torrent, gently crashing, frothing
White and shimmering with the crisp Autumn sun above.

Who is the wicked messenger, robed in nothing
But secrets, yet no lies. Who opens safes without
A pick and refines a structure that no man or woman
Would aim to fix? Where are our heroes now? Where
Are the martyrs and their pamphlets showing false
Worth and reason for sacrificing instead of living?
Where are we all when the clock strikes midnight and
There is no bed to sleep in because they are all on fire.
Where is our government, bound and gagged behind
Closed door, door after door with the doorknob missing
And the peephole blinded by melted wax. Where
Are our originals, or beginners, and our revolutionaries?
Where is the fight and where is the enemies white flag?
Why do mothers and fathers hide their face behind
Plastic mask? Why are questions able to life half of
What one seeks? Why can it not absolve it all?

Tired and incomplete
The butcher's
Pack up
Their meat

Each new day I
See the brown fields
And the
Brilliant morning sun

To see such
Sights allows me
To believe that to live
Once

Is quite
Enough