Silhouette of the reaper
Shadow of my fear
Branding me with
Thoughts of my own demise
Our fragile moth wings
Incinerate when we touch the light.
-2019

Slip like a
Fish through my grasp
And I will
Tear out my hair
Strand by paper thin
Lock
Until I am left eating
Raw magnetic tape
And finding new awe
In the constellations
Beneath the firepit
I will
Button my jacket
While tasting the cool, bitter
Smoke of memories
Whanging out of my head
As I do my best to
Keep from tearing a hole in my cabin
And fleeing out into the
Bitter crisp night.
Know that
It is not for myself
That I commiserate.
You and I,
We were lost at sea too long past
Before the ashen cement had dried.
The prolonged lingering of the heart
You’ve already forgotten.
-2019

Fold thyself upon the mattress
The cards upon the table
The hand it grasps
Six fingered
And encased in glass
I smoke
Memories of five years past
Numbness of the heart
Tainting the very ego
Breathing the bones
Bequeathing a new wonderment
Animate the dead,
Go and
Reach into the trove and
Ransack the physique
Ruination and
A tear in the psyche
I am gone.
-2019

Sometimes life just pushes you through doors you never even noticed. Doors possessing a different keyhole than the one you have on your person. It was never locked; it stood there resolutely ignoring your breath while you ignore its oak.

You knock on it now.

You have trouble making a rhythm. Your nerves forget that doors could be opened from the outside. You stand there waiting for something to turn the ****, ignoring the fact that you are a man and you have hands and you alone have the strength to open it.

You knock some more.

Sometimes, the door is wrong. You figure out how to open it and you’re greeted by the nightfall. You put your hands in front of you and try to feel the wind. There are no gales in September. The room is a workshop and you are a doctor.

You take two steps backwards.

Life mocks you by throwing you by the same door again, some time after you forgot about the second one. You pushed it by muscle memory and was greeted by the sun. There is a bluebird perched on a willow. It sings for you, doctor. The song is for September.

The workshop at last.

Water running through toes and over elbows.
Cascading down forearms and up necks.

Falling in stampedes from underneath eyelids
PIT PAT
PIT PAT
PIT PAT
Onto shoelaces and ankles and
Fabric draped across our laps.

This is the feeling of an afternoon spent entangled in
Covers. The sensation of a cold breeze
Swooping us up on its burdensome wings
Only to ask “Where’s my tip?” and the shrugging shoulders
That follow. The rattle of empty pockets. The
Shattering of glass and a cry for HELP
So incredibly ARDUOUS it slices your throat
Like a steel blade
SSSSSS SSSSSSSSSSSS
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS SSSSSSSSSS
SS­SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
And the clock doesn’t stop ticking
Around and around until you’re too dizzy.

This is the feeling of water running through toes and over elbows. Cascading down forearms and up necks. This is the feeling of an afternoon spent entangled in covers. The feeling of a cold breeze swooping us up on it burdensome wings. The feeling of a cry so arduous it slices your throat like a steel blade.

In the crisp of morning, does edge of rest approach. For in the tents of great men do the warriors awaken in preparation for battle.

Sharpening their swords, fortifying their shields, girding their spears and dawning their armours - a crest for honour. Though amid the steadiness, do they await the word of their beloved monach.

"Sar-Shalom!" be the cries heard, echoeing upon the voices of the wind. Reaching even beyond the battlefields. The name of the monach, adored by the great men, anticipating the words to come.

Alas, wisdom comes on the voice of the wind: "In the vallies, will you victories come". Bewildered they stood, asking themselves "why?" But, their monach adorned in their love does their loyalty stand.

So, to the vallies do they march. Upon the word do they stand, anticipation honoured by their trust. For a hard battle will they fight, yet a grand victory will they know - a relief from their beloved.

From the peaks do they descend, and to the vallies do they arrive. The battlefield marked for honour by their seeing eyes;
Unsheathing are they ready, for the accusers come - but unexpecting are they, for the assurance declared in the meeting of blades.

The divines surrounding their accusers, is the battle endorsed for the victors. As they cut down even their final Goliaths. In the praises given up on the voices of the wind, does Sar-Shalom hear the chants - His great men, now the victories of Eden.

Now the journey do they cherish, in returning to their home. The tents of great men, now victories on the heights. What more shall be done? But to sing in glee. For the enemies borders are lost in the restoring victory.

Their wounds shall heal, and bruises shall fade, but the songs of glee shall ring out through time, eternal;
Oh, the voices of the winds chant forever "Victory in the Vallies!"

In that moment I was in my chair yet out of my body
somewhere in the sky’s gentle hair
in strands thick and stretching out past Neptune
I was gone
I was made of flesh yet not at all
my pores had pride pouring out
I sneezed out envy, coughed up anxiety
sadness left with a tear
anger was brushed off my beard
happiness followed the next breath away
and I was left with a soul in the shape of a poem
so it looked like…?
Nothing I could explain but I remained in a place of spiritual terrain
had telescopes where eyes should have been
I made my heart rise and the sun beat
I took a step into a step-less reason
stayed afloat for the next eight seasons
and came back slowly
descending into a cadaver that took its veins for granted
and resurrected a black body that was made as a result of gods needing a hobby

I was meditating.
And the world above awaits you too
if you seek it.