In reverse of the waddle wheel
the landscape runs back in blow
of winds that take a hair threadlike’s hand
to dance a trickle of pathos
when I swallow.
Not thoughts of of prattle, but roars within struggle
as if time concreted through spaces, still,
to contingency thee confide.
What a subtle heaviness to stand where I shall revel
What a terrible freedom to know what I cannot sail

It’s gonna end.

But until now I can’t even tell
what I am missing,
for what, and by whom?

Sitting on the wire she glooms and alone
‘Down forth’ all beckon,
‘Bits of bread are there
Pick up lest the other demands share’.
The lame bird ***** in the air
Rolling down from her breast a feather,
Pecking a bit with a sense
The escorts saving by defence.
A hunter hits like the lightning from the blue
None finds out yet its clue,
Concreted blood splitting and dog's spittle
Absence of delay makes her utmost brittle,
The barking dogs in the narrow city
Whose have with her no affinity,
All green leaves falling upon ground
That is for love beyond of bound,
Odium! Odium! to the merciless beings
The supreme creatures for whom so long she sings.

Struggling to breathe,
like a fish out of water.
This is the end.

When I am silent,
and it’s all said and done,
will you bask in the quiet-
happy you’ve won?

No more complaints
slipping past my lips,
just peaceful quiet
and sometimes a kiss.

Will you be smug
while you rant through the day,
watching me nod along
with nothing to say?

That’s all you wanted, right?
Obedient peace.
An interesting woman to meet,
until she becomes what you please.

Or will you miss my words?
My fire? My song?
Will you miss my ranting?
Will my silence feel wrong?

Will you look in my eyes
and see through the glass?
There’s nothing there anymore-
only what you ask.

I’m driving on my way home
from a job that doesn’t make ends meet.
Pawned all my gold, silver and chrome
and placed my hat and sign on the street.

I’m living in a creative hell
One that serves me but doesn’t serve well.
Into my flesh I would carve,
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you didn’t starve.”

At each red, I clutch at my steering wheel
and scratch my lottery tickets.
Manifest a positivity I don’t feel,
when it scans I hear only crickets.

I’m living in a creative hell,
one that traps and encases me as a shell.
Preventing me from air, society and heat
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you could eat.”

I have no certifications and no degrees,
my only trade and skill are the words that I write;
the gift that both comforts and tortures me,
it’s too bad that no one pays for plight.

I’m living in a creative hell,
voicing it quietly while ringing a bell.
Begging for help but don’t want to be rude
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you had food.”

I’m living in a creative hell
One that serves me but doesn’t serve well.
Into my flesh I would carve,
“You wouldn’t be a starving artist if you didn’t starve.”

I whisper my struggle against rage, a vulture perched, refusing to
budge, circling the leftovers of life. My tears — a mirror, awkward
disguises, suggesting more than I admit. What is a man in his own
fantasies, if even there he dreams himself as someone less?

Knowing a circle of friends blooms misshapen, my circle is more
like a triangle —each angle pointing out each other, each edge
sharp to sharper your edge. I am obtuse among the acute, aware
of my struggles with precision; people measure me from distance.

Still, their echoes and hues pull words out of me, inspiration sparked
by friction. But I’m just this jar chasing lightning, as if it ever strikes
twice; each dream I hold flickers fragile in my hands; the texture of
a dream is lucid, slipping through like current.

The recipe of life: tears, sweat, regrets, a hint of success for taste.
And the chef? Shadows us like a grand tree on the hillside, quietly
stirring the ***, watching, seasoning my days with the abrupt nature
of time.