Human beings
That mantle of stardust pottery
To shatter, to polish is History
Do not fear what the darkness shows me

I drink until I depart moments that matter
Toss into Sleep a night strung with chatter
My feet have never touched the ground
I wish to leave this body without a sound

A paleo-socialistic dig; a regression of vetted meat
Slapped over the shoulders of eternity
Set in a rowboat on a re-digested sea
The butcher, the slayer and the speechmaker…
…the birth of humanity

A terse, muscle livery sack
Dear Christ, Life is just played back
Numbers cantilevering sunlight into three
Time, the Songs of Solomon, and HeartBeat

And where all hands fall to earth we piece
The iridescent architecture of the Holy Trinity
And the poet as Argonaut flung into infinity
To seethe, seize; seas, trees. To please.

Remember to breathe.

Two waves of the sea
Formed from infinity
That's you and me
Our faces twitching with fear
Eyes as ornaments
That is what stars wish to be
And we could forever sing
But for gut and infection
That is Gravity

I am the ricin of my parents' beliefs
I am the manor house that they reap
I am the imagination they no longer seek
I am the rhythm they could never keep

Don't give me things to think
Give me things to see
Leave the unraveling of the mind
Up to my demons and me

Remember that the ghosts of black-and-white photos could breathe
Their blood sung waterfalls in an unnamed key.  
Men ran like machinery and they could hate and breed
God's distended bowels spun into Humanity

Sentamentalistic
The braiding of the universe
Black hair bronzed with the earths sun
An actor reading lessons of heaven
Hope unspun

Thump thump thump of color
Rhetoric is the chemical burn of man
The actor gets away with ******
The honey yellow of isotopic historians.  

Cause is the Gravity
The woman is ground
God is the elements
Stirring woe into renown

I can't wait to be stardust again
Protein and bone ends
And at Gravity's chagrin
Set the course of the rivers bend
I can't wait to be no more than churn
Mistaken for blood mud
Like red clay in the sun's burn
And picked over for His ecclesiastic thud
And rhymed with Time; the poet's sweet crud