I sit here, amidst a darkened hall,
Congregating with the darkened rats,
Sipping upon a darkened drink— blood-drawn.

Now I rub my ******* and feel them swell
Amidst a rally-call within this darkened hall,
Possessed by a demon’s hypnotic call— his rally-call.

they’ve tried to mechanize, machine tool, the kindness business,
since it seems that being kind is no longer intuitive, au naturel,
but you and I can still scratch off the genes rusted shut that
help the elderly who set out to cross the street knowing full well
20 seconds ain’t enough to make over four lanes with a gait that
don’t move giddy up no more, even with a walker or a cane

the city sidewalks are tremulously arrayed with cracks and rough,
mini sized rises, even small hillocks, that we rushabouts rate noticed
until we have been tripped up in a prior excursion in that same spot

a child once ran out of the park onto the avenue, looking distressed,
in a city that’s overloaded with risk and dangerous one doesn’t want to imagine, wife says “something’s wrong,” sure enough a dawdler,
walking home with her dad, looks up and he is not visible; panicked,
who knew that in an a city of millions, where separation is a hell lot wider than five degrees of separation, that she would know my children, and let me walk her home; the father of course, hunting for her in all the wrong places, I walk her home…the mother, semi-stunned, asks how she could ever thank us, was surprised at my answer…”When your husband returns home to confess his misdeed, having lost his child, just greet him without opprobrium and blame,
for he has already punished himself far worse than you ever could…”

it is in the small things that we acknowledge that we are more alike
than not, and we are knotted in a single strand in ways we cannot
always ken, and sometimes, do not want to acknowledge, for this
temple building business is not without risk, but surely it is a structure built of bricks of loving compassion, and essences of goodness, the small kindnesses in our blood cells, that all of us innately possess...

When someone dies their thoughts
Die with them,
Their bones absorb their words-
After a summer others cease to remember,
We fade and then are gone.


Each person is replaced:
Vast cities shrink becoming grass-beaten mounds,
Shining cultures wither,
Their intricate palaces shatter,
Temples decay under interminable suns,
Religions flounder, sacrificed to time.

Philosophies expire like sunlight
When night falls, wise words unravel,
Tortured by inconsequence,
Decay dripping from each syllable
Like uncollected wind-driven *******
Running down a lonely street.

In the alley the dog howls,
Amongst the discarded boxes the
Raven sings.

the edges are stained blue

and no matter
that spring is holding out its hand
in a promise,

spring becomes summer,
summer fall,
and winter again,

and the hours and the hours and the hours

and cities rise
and forests fall

once, gods
are now falling into disrepair,
temples on the verge
of imploding.