The pen is the sword
Nukes are nothing compared to
Our quick fragile mind

Alarm, already

five times in just a minute --


I hear my first name!

Only fools would lock birds in a cage.
There they grow, and with them grows their rage.

In their eyes you can see the desire
to break free, to tear down the barbed wire,
and to launch at their captor, with claws—
sinking deep in his flesh all because—

—only fools would lock birds in a cage,
where they grow, and with them grows their rage.

Can you hear the buzz in the air—
the electric charge? See a flare
lighten up the roadway to your death?
Are you ready to take your last breath?
No? What a dull, boring affair...
Get out of the way, far from here!

and nothing
- no -
can touch you here.
you need to know;
you want to hear.
lagoons of time
- pearlescent-
in all directions;
omnipresent.
we waste our tastes
in saline haste to swallow
something more than hate;
to anchor all,
to simulate;
the weight of tears
against the odds
of breath and flesh.
that safety net
defies the length of sentiment,
and even yet...
you hold yourself in present tense
to sweat,
resent,
repent.
and so,
you starve and fret.
in the dead of night
you petrify,
resist the air that rents
and gasp:
what was that?

Forever falling
Through the open hearts of outstretched arms
Tunnel vision of the past
Paves the roads ahead
The off-ramps of destiny are untamed, forgotten, and overgrown
No safety awaits me, and
There is no shelter under the roof of a broken home
Storms chase me, but
In thunderclouds I drown out the world
Wanderer
Weary of only the weather
Inside his own reflection

flashes in the dark.
matches scratch,
little fires arise.
bread browns,
fish sizzle,
the scent of coffee boiled in cans.

a clatter of knives,
tobacco clouds,
a lapping on the rocks.

before,
that vastness of sea.
behind,
the frozen wastes;
that barren of broken dreams.

they are so very far from home.

one stands,
watches,
points an arm toward the glow
of crimson afar.

they cross themselves,
ready the tackle
and stand,
knowing they may not return

but hunger is unkind,
and death makes no exceptions
for sailors.

Dangerman
—a buyer and seller
of mostly himself

Petticoat
—a ***** on the take
and about to slip

Each made promises to the other
but both loved journeys
and valleys
and limericks
and turntables
and spirits
and skirt-raising
and slowdives
and lip-biting
and come-hither
more than their here-and-now vow

Trigger-happy begetter
with an ax to grind
killing captives slowly
with jagged little things
it's the strangest sound
in spite of the plight of
the ringing in his ears
it never fades away

I reckon numbers and lead are arbitrary
to a button man
whose wheels turn circles
mainly in his skull
revolving/rouletting
as infinite go-around

Never mind though, the time must be now
for a show of hands

Motherhood waited in the ship's hold
until the treasure hunt
brought her to this final island
a choice between gold
and the aging ******

The young who suckle at her breast
might one day run mum through
with the sword at Payback
—that unsteady little homestead
where profit and loss
share the same face

Never mind though, the moment must be now
to ring the bell

And raise redemption
like a burning flag of regret