Side-swept and caught
bereft in the dust colonies
of my memories.
Can’t cough for the life of me,
the air claws at my lungs
to escape—You’re imprisoned.

No windows in this basement,
its cries for light
cackling through its foundation.
Even the bulb you replaced
popped & burned as
black as your pupils.

Is that rain outside?
I might’ve asked you—but
these walls don’t care.
Concrete, born from water,
now lifeless and impervious
to its drum.

Still searching for the box
you gave me, that mocks
from the center—no doubt the core—
trapped and tangled in this
cardboard monument
of human waste.

To the flames it’ll go,
******* from my lungs
the stale oxygen you left behind.
Fresh air nearly forgotten,
though out of reach,
just like your touch.

words are bones of the dead
exhumed by mind or God or worms
to serve as the razor’s edge
carving trenches along
tongues where words are hung on tips
of innocent cliffs above guilty shores
while dreams unravel their threads
to shed narratives even nightmares
fear to tread;
the labyrinth from ear to eerie
plunging fathoms beyond waves
into oceans without words
where context meets
space;meaning meets time
swirling currents


before your eyes

focusing your sight
into a thousand words
of blistering might illuminating
recesses with signs of life
clung fast to the boiling point
of excitement possessed by ecstasy
ebulliently freighting sweet air
to the surface
where the survey concludes
that pollution occludes all reasons
as to whether or not
the will might’ve brought
a word or two from
original thought.

you're the coffee to my cup
the stitch to my seam
you bring the down to my up
the I to my beam
you're the orange to my carrot
the beef to my stew
you're the fox to my ferret
your cages, my zoo
you're the moat to my castle
the saddle to my steed
your jester's my vassal
your virtue, my deed
you're the fly to my web
the venom to my sting
you turn my flow into ebb
my winters into spring
you're the syn to my thesis
the sun to my leaves
your puzzle holds my pieces
your wire binds my sieves
you're the hedges to my maze
the signal to my noise
your game racks up my plays
like a child collecting toys
you're the sheen to my mirror
the pixels to my screen
you make further feel nearer
than my feelers can glean
you're the ink to my pen
the feathers to my wings
you turn how into when
and whethers into rings
you're the valves to my heart
the fluid to my spine
you're laughing at my ****
(was that yours or mine?)
you're the hints to my clue
the hunch to my claim
you turn my false into true
and my wild, you tame
your splinters are my plank
your twist, my *****
you're the toothbrush to my shank
the red to my blue
you're in love with my hatred
you honor my shame
your church bears my cross
your tombstone, my name
you're waging my war
your shells fill my tanks
your rich, my poor
your spit, my thanks
you're more to my less
the vowels to my needs
you put the sure in my guess
the plea in my pleads
you're the soles to my feet
and the depths to my sea
but in case we don't meet
here's from you to me

yellow city, black sky
massive architecture, flickering liquid
glass oceans along
the cold canyons of San Francisco
wavering illusion upon reality
disfigured sideshow reflections
of disembodied achievement
trapped in themselves,
our selves
no longer nourished by the roots,
a hunger imposed upon the planet
like a suffocating blanket that people
pave over and **** on
until it's buried so deep
that even the heart has trouble breathing,
trouble beating out its rhythm;
a musical act of joy now stuttering
along like a gasping survivor
straggling across the ruins of Pompeii
crying out for what? help? no,
the end of suffering, a swift death
instead of the long parasitic drawl
that man so eagerly inflicts
upon the earth, himself
claiming the Kingdom
for the eternal barbarian, deep in the veins
coursing through the apparatus
which creaks beneath the weight of our guilt
and stultifies in the monstrosity of our ignorance,
yet it continues to run,
as if to see how far we'll go,
as if life were merely an experiment to see
how spectacularly
it could end

poetry is more than me
it's more than words
& more than rhyme
it's vaster than space
& faster than rhythm surfing
the waves of time
amplifying its
frequency with
each &
every
line
pointed by symbols (signs?)
clung to limestone precipices
like vines within concrete crevices
whispering screams of defiance
against ignorance's yokes,
again our arrogance jokes
about the insignificance of other folks
of the other ones
of them, those people, the absentminders
relentlessly fettered in golden
coats profaning their shine thusly true
so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface
as the caustics of thought refract through
the waters of spirit & soul
churned out of each & every mind
a field of poetics
lurking behind the edifice of structure
deified as functional perfection manifested
but utterly infested with ***** sheets
& replete with redundant repugnance
filtered by plumbing that dumbs **** down
to the basement level deep underground
where much is mumbled but little is said
aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.

The poem began thus:
(The poem thus began:
“The poem began thus:
‘Thus, the poem began:
“Thus began the poem.
”’”)‘Thus, the poem began:
“Thus began the poem.”’

Thus the poem began: