What purity is rendered from the wreckage of these days?
Hearts torn asunder and splayed across a dying world;
A world that falls like dreams do
When the light hits hard across the room.

And I want to hold something heavy and cold,

Like the smooth stones at the base of the current’s flow,

But I am grasping air

And my breath weaves a river that dissipates
Like the memory of snow
Across the western peaks
Before the harsh rays of late spring
Melt these sculpted constructs down to nothing but
Granite and bone,

And the scintillating potential of the soul,

Like a wound that festers,
Or is rendered,
Into something mercilessly scarred
But somehow, more beautiful,
And whole.  

In the breaking, there is death,

And I question whether that is all there is.

Sometimes, the breaking never ends and all I see is a failure to save her. The darkness claims her over and over again in my mind and
There is the sharp absence of a savior,

Anywhere, here on earth,
Or later,

And it certainly wasn’t me.

So, is that what this life will be?
Or can we render light from the wreckage of these days,
If we were to drop down and crawl on bended knees
To some higher place

Where there is redemption in defeat

And a new life
Fresh and green
Sprouting from the remnants of our own humility
In which we must now anchor

Everything?

he thuds the loosely held floorboards
and smashes through the heavy pub door
he orders for a bottle instead of a glass
his coat drenched in filthy rain
his breathe smells like the rim of his bottle
and his shoes protruded a toe
wounds of glass from his last endeavors  
and needle marks not from the hospital
his crooked hands and messy hair puts anyone at a distance
once he was a gentlemen a father and a husband
once he had love and loved so many
once he had no need for needles
the bottle in his hand had only lukewarm milk
the bar tender was a stranger he'd never met
and his foot was only weary of legos misplaced
his shoes was stitched with a patch of a bunny
this man who was thrown
this man who was now a widower
and the smiles of her daughters trapped in his wallet
torn to shreds skinned to core
A blotted out smile on a blotted out photo
he now finds comfort in forgetfulness
to not remember the "how it used to be"
he has forgotten their graves and with it his promises
as their flowers wilt and perish
for a life a love an existence
is only meaningful if it has a memory

We thought  we were the rise and fall of the world,
           could we have been more wrong..

I remember an old proverb,


"Control is foolish without batteries,
   because once they run out.
                        Your stuck on
                         one channel,
watching
                 a singular view unchanging,

Could we mould the world,
like a pottery class we're moulding it  
         thinking we could
            paint it,
kiln it,

and it was perfection..

But we had a malevolent arrogance,
thinking we were saintly,
       all though we thought we were saints.

So boastful of our accomplishments,
           we never looked at the singular crack.
Barley visible to the eye, but there never the less.

After a while we ignored it, as we never
                                                       expected
Our work to falter..

I remember a proverb that paid heed to this.

Discontinuity may be a scratch,
            visually constrained

but protracted in depth. malevolent

Beneath will never show the truth till

                            it collapses within its self..

Wordy I know, but a truth of now.
         Never paying attention to the scratch
but not seeing the fracture just waiting for that
                                            singular weight to
descend us to the now. So many cracks in the world.

Now no matter our skill the world is just putty,
   remoulding itself with every new day..

A sunrise of reflection,
            Dusk hiding the truth of our folly.

We now live in this new world of our undoing..
           The poetry wheel is fragmentary,
the vase now floating, shifting in the well
we used to mould it with.

And we stare at the
                             sunrise seeing our
vindictive creation...

We are the evil of this world, a creation of arrogance.

whaddayoudo
between fast food and poo
of benefit to this earth
what is left
or are you bereft
of any contributing worth

you accelerate too fast
and squander the stuff
that took millions of years to make
what do you think
in the din of your doof
as you take and take and take

are you nuts
to leave a trail of butts
and grunting diatribe
dropping your empties
what were you thinking
it's just such a bad vibe

you sneer an swear
and put smoke in the air
and criticise all that’s arty
you adopt talk of the street
and a derivative beat
as you fight for your right to party

whaddayoudo
between fast food and poo
that is of redeeming worth
whaddayoudo
that would be fine and true
that's of benefit to this earth?

You stand there and laugh
At your pedestal  
As if you’re better than me
But are you?

We both come from dirt
And will be dirt.

Plush cushions for a wood green hut
Indigent, arrogance, and Omniscience

Learned counterpart owned the seats
Grey, humble, Shamen

Pure fear, unmoving in his discourse

Pure love, uplifting in his seat

Time calls for action. Was he willing?

Yes--preparation inside the wood tree hut.

Inside the young man’s mouth
Chewed a taste of bubble gum worn out

For one hour they waited
Sitting comfortably, and waited

Blood Red skinned Demons peel off the roof
Razor Talons swinging
Razor Talons scratching at our young man’s head.

Our shamen waits, unmoving, calming, and encouraging

Inside his breath was a spell.
To calm, and quell any foe.
A cool breath froze the winged *******
Sending them back to where they came

Time passes
A mind now healed like a band-aid covering a wound
His mind was pulled closer.

Our young man returned his eyes to the wood green hut
Seeing the old man, smiling for his own part
A street-wide smile was sent back
Leaving the seat he thanked him with complete
Love for each other, and all mankind