onyx fondles the yellow hem of a skirt of sunlight
without tarnishing its reputation for unbridled darkness.
scattered amid a herd of tumbleweeds
as iron as the sky… and the odd tortoise, rehearsing
a ballad, for to soothe the odd savage jackal.
as mad things call.

a storm approaches maximum sloth, as the sun beats the clock.
as the sun beats the arid scape with sour hammers, teaching vultures
the gospel of desolation and the effluvium of dead still.
the heat rising to meet the impending rain
is a vengeance and a frenzied vole.
and the hour of our thirst is unconquered
in the shadow of a Black Mesa,
with a Red Name.

you do not come from origins.
you arrive, loved before you know yourself
and your actions burble in the dark
willow branches... taking a **** on the Moon.
you laugh when i say that
but you know me now.
i keep the spiders from eclipse like a Pro.
i sweep rugs under the rug
and replace them
with all of
my -

“ I don’t know “

so Life is how we embrace
too soon, before that.
for no reason that English can French.
we adapt.

with all that Latin
in our laps
in a cauldron
of acid
laughs.

every day is like a brand new opportunity for nightfall.
i’m not mad about that. I’m a poet, and poets are mad hatters.
i awoke with my tongue in my shoes.
but my feet were not my stride.
every now and then...the Past is a tad sadder.
but i’m happy through it all
yet cannot laugh gladder.
like cat food and consciousness.
i persist like a meal
for a wee beast
and a think.

or I don't matter.