confess to the wind,
who knows only of freedom
and bears no burdens.

(I am your breeze)

pocket full of pennies
rolling across the kitchen floor,
down the steps, out the door,

pennies running into the street
(and i'm right behind them.)

"where do you think you are going? and
I'm feeling a bit embarrassed, so i whispered.
"you belong to me,

to keep or to throw away." and

there s a light tap on my shoulder,
and the policeman tells me,

"better find them soon
before they turn to rust,

I couldn't find mine
and I'm sure they turned into dust."

and the echoe from the hole
in my pocket shouts,
" his dreams are
trying to find the waterline."

i did find a few of them, a handful,
(I had swiped my hand as they tried to roll away)

I did grasp a few

but some of the other
pennies i threw into the air
where they may have fallen,
I know not where.

It’s so hard to grieve the loss of someone who’s still here.
Holding my breath just to hide the fear.
Where did I go wrong believing in ghosts?

We stare at empty light
Look at fake pictures
Pretend that everything
Is just okay

We watch pointless videos
Mindless entertainment
To fill the endless void
The people have created

We don't know what to do with ourselves
To keep us occupied
We don't know what we like
We don't know how else to hide

The world is ending
People are dying
We are all stuck
In a fake world

Just zombies
Trying to cure ourselves
Of the terrifying void
Outside

the ground suffers vertigo--its
differential of wake to silence.
Christ walking thru twelve minds,
whose perception of him do not vary--
xing out a stain glass fish with a diamond.
then unto variances...exposed capillaries
uprooted by hosted light, like wiggly
ocean plants on white stones.
following a needle's twain, to the pupil's
ecliptic.
a Gravitron's light years blaring Classical
Age mockeries.

space has always heard disembodied
voices--then mouths eventually
opened with shocks of sound.
when that involuntarily comes across,
incantations are dwarfed--meaning to.
as if through a corresponding row of
numbers, that give way to unlikey
shapes that compliment one another.
a cluster of grapes resting on the hip
of a naked woman, lying on her side.
light-canceling curtains purporting
the birthplace of darkness, net
motions loose as color left scheming.
though nothing stirs--per se.

Thanatos--are you standard in your
procedure?
that is, do you exert the precise force an
individual requires to be pronounced
dead?
are you negligible with some, completely
unaware of your strength?
leave no dust for dust to come to, as you
would the like of: nothing.
do you keep the lives you take for yourself--how would that work?
you should have been dead the first time, but you didn't die--you took a life & ran with it.
you never stop, do you--which's to say you're infinite, that word afforded  bad poets.
the way that looking at checkered shoes
feels like the makings of a headache.
Thanatos--i suspect you're more than
submitted anatomy, you've never once
rejected a submission (in the end).
nor will you this poem.
you are winter here, & i know you see in snow--what about elsewhere?
Thanatos--what if i told you that you're
somehow a lesser god, subordinate to
Gd of thy Gd.
i'm yours--but in an unfaithful way.
you whose exotic collection of
Mahasamadhi is like a cat nap with
elevator music.

a mind (non-possessive) offered

a body (possessive) the unco

outgrowth of the following.

writing left to right about a heart

hung like the skinned head of an

unseen animal.

its long bath slowly drained--

staring down at sawdust like gold

shavings.

it is both true & untrue to say a

heart will not rot in a chest.