ambiance amplified and gravitas dead inside
drink alone, danger zone, shot the Jekyll, saved the Hyde
cut my seat belts so my doors wouldn't beep, though
I creep with a fleet of conceited banditos
to the park, skip some rocks, play the shark, shuffle birds
find the narc, go and knock, make it bark, no one heard
a million reason to stay awake wide-eyed tonight
ninety-nine *******, one problem: you're in my line of sight
black & decker woodpecker, fur-trap chop with my power-drill
trill wagon, cool dragon flagon of honey mead on the window sill
unseen fiends mean for stones out beating streets to smithereens
you only live nine times: shake the earth, **** the silver screens
pair of sweet, pear-shaped tweets for you to meet in the suite,
they can show, you can see that they know how to greet
enough throwaways to keep boost mobile open
enough light reflecting princess cuts that they think my neck is frozen

By this time of the year (In days of old and times past)
we would already be
                                    
                         ­             skipping off
              
               onto deer trails--------                
^^^^^^^^^^in the woods of Fairview park.^^^^^^^^^^
-
at
    the
          bottom
                   ­   of
Stevens Creek runs through
                         those
                                 steep
                                          hills.
-
We will dip our toes in the slow, murky water
(James came to town)
as the thick, sweet smell of my burning cigarillo
(and the whiskey fell into our glasses.)
lingers on the water's surface.
(It was a race to see who would pass out last)
It is here that we are young; No moss clinging.
(and be the one to see him off at dawn.)
-
That old ****-colored truck with the key broken off in the ignition
will take life with every well-used car I'm in. "The Brown Trout".
Marcus called from the 24-hour gas station on Eldorado
to tell you he broke the key in the ignition and couldn't seem to get the ****** truck started. We gave comedy its due.
What could we have done at that point but stumble into the blue?
I recall forty girls & boys crammed into an efficiency apartment that night
as the bathroom vent sapped the room of smoke, liquor stench
and Nag Champa incense, while the dense fog
of budding lust hung in stasis over our heads.
Boys on the exit living out their tree house fantasies;
drinking away boredom and skateboard injuries.
-
Phantoms of the apartment buildings
(Do you remember Dipper Lane?)
at the end of West Main tell tales of past tenants.
(I seem to have forgotten your name again.)
What does it feel like
(Did you hear something?)
to be a home away from home?
(I've been alone this whole time.)
-
It's four years later and the bikini tree has tan lines,
they cut down the ******* walnut at my old house,
and built my ark from its wood.
Supple leaves line the Sylvan Queen's Kermes colored hair
as we sail for higher ground.
Now the stinging sunlight cuts through the cracks in the wood.
-
I'm examining the border of a much larger picture.
Even now, the resolution grows fuzzy.
You are a leaf on the five-hundredth page of my dictionary. Ginko.
I placed you there on a particularly sunny day in July
when the Magicicadas woke up to the sound of Joe Cocker,
and we both learned the language of the spheres.

these horns, these horns, they weigh me down
they extend like branches towards the sun
and my head is forced to face the asphalt
while I never get to see the rushing headlights

my shadow is sewn to the soles of my sneakers
feet slowly being molded to cloven hooves
as I tip toe through then new year silverdust snow
to feed my few remaining stray familiars

I still live behind the old car wash
so there isn't going to be an inspirational landscape
only drunken demi-gods, dollars falling on deaf ears,
and a cutlass ciera in need of a catalyic converter

inev idiv iciv

Cinnamon sonogram

Detect the abnormalities too late.

Morning after birth of

a placebo placenta.

Irrigate the porcelain

of a lost labor laboratory.

Love found not within the arms of

the golem grasping for straws.

-

Wailing a harmony of blue and red.

Pumping panacea.

Steady the pace, you hotheads

with elegant electric veins.

On Monday she sung so sweetly and

whispered her prophet tales.

Saturday appeared as an echoing,

hollow and halfhearted hymn.

-

They retreat in rebellion;

lapping at salt laced lacerations.

Rye, grain, roots, and grapes

for the Baroness of the Barrens.

Weeping waters leads to the

sleeping daughters that dangle

their threats like fishing hooks

off of the edge of a world so flat.

I have ideas that never seem to stick
Like a spark that falters on a half-lit wick
I think “Eureka! Wow, I've done it again!”
But when I mold my thought-child that’s exactly when
I get booted off for no ticket on this train of thought
And the project derails into an old vacant lot
That lot is a notebook at the foot of my bed
It’s labeled “ideas” but it should read “drop dead”
My ideas are all just orphaned on paper
Their father held interest, but started to taper
“I’ll get to it sometime!” but no clock reads “some”
I just like the feeling of ideas under thumb
Is it arrogance? I hope not, just a stream of dumb luck
Or maybe I’m just afraid of being told that I ****

here we spin the synchronic dance of the fluids
that dribble down in aesthetic perfection;
free-flowing from the gullet of creation
into the palms of the frenzied flock.
the grim etchings left by her in the signet
reflect the proper terms for glossolalia,
but the honeyed tones are lost to primitive organs
and a piteous gurgle is all that emerges.

here we were, eaters of shale, chewers of dirt,
warmed beneath the blanket of her shadow,
paled by the protection of her casting murk
that hid us from the vile stars.

pollen, pollen, pollen, pollen,
showering, soaking, deep down in the gut.
Bezoar of my bezoar, heart within my sleeve,
I am waiting for my emotions to return to me.

hurry boy, don't doze
etch the words before they perish
as the situation once again alters
coiling around your wrist
tugging you to that place
sleep every moment
dwelling in the blankets
soaking in that stale security
false impressions attached/removed
like velcro ripping in the silence
masks on masks on masks on masks on masks on
could spend days pruning in the seabed of potential
while the salt collects on my eyelashes and the days vanish like eons
there are days where the stillness in me quakes my feet
into the fervor of rabbit under moving tire and
I pound the walls for a train to pass and shake the foundation
but the tracks are too far away now, and the stillness creeps
dust collects on the fan blades, then the plastic grating, then the intake
the thing rattles all night now; loose ***** in the front
hardly a substitute for that rumble in your dreams
from an archer daniel's car rushing by at four
the bed is a lot better at this place though
king size, though I'd rather be in california
where the water is warm and the memories catch your falls
I've never been there and the idea is always better than the outcome
kicking sand like a beach bully *** flexing in strut
sun burns within seconds of shirtless self-reveals
the salt is being washed off of the cars
from an illinois winter that the plow conquered to the dismay of
the kids down the block who still waited
at dawn for the diesel yellow groan
the heat is swelling in the season
chirps return with the sting
of rolled up passenger windows
magnifying the clean white light
ninety-eight million miles marched
to a single point on a pale dot
burning that poor gal's cheek
but the medicinal effects
of the smooch are more than known
to generations of the summer awakened,
free-falling, reality born.
here we are again with showers and flowers,
here we are again with cyclones in the alley,
here we are again with cocoons and buffoons,
here we are again with milk in the valley.
this heart pumps as the snow goes rising
to the funnels and pillars east-stretched
where the baby boomers buy plots and
the love begins to reach for an even share.

from mouth to messiah, the words felt compressed
lungs gasping frantic and fever dream blush
the croaking of hymns crescendo in the absence
of pomp left extinct in the burrowing hush

charisma unfiltered, he's charged with a burden
of casting the rhythm away from the strut
horned-god-be-******, the spittle and curse
that left mark on the imps and ghasts in his gut

by mother and kin, the night would seep in
and by father-in-tomb he'd oppose it,
for if paradise quakes and the bricks wilt and bend,
death would not emerge lest he chose it

With my words, I conjure up Hell, and Hell takes the form of the familiar. This shell will double, and double, and double. Prototype for the archetype am I. She, the murk, will permeate; hive mind motherhood.

Lost in the fumes of a cloudy exhale
I search for a glimpse of myself in grimy water.
My remains are scattered somewhere
between boyhood and gutter trash.
The present is hardly of concern
when the blankets of mud offer such astounding
silence.
This swamp was flooded with the prosperity of quitters.
-
The face of the street I grew up on
has been radically warped and distorted.
Leave a good thing to the elements long enough
and you’ll see it begin to degrade.
Dust gathers and mold begins to creep in
from the moisture lingering in the air.
It happens to our childhood toys
just as easily as it happens to the people we know.
-
Everything still holds the same shape;
the same structure that casts a shadow in memory,
it’s just that now the cosmetics have worn off
and you can see the tired lines start to show.
You can hear the creak of arthritic wooden steps
to front porches where old kin with liver spots
sit and drink a shared Ice House 40 oz. while spitting into the wind.
Cavities from a candy coated childhood.
-
There are strangers in my old home,
that place where my uncle lives
surrounded by VHS tapes, pictures of Brett Favre,
and reminders of dead cockatiels.
The biggest struggle is trying to recall
if he was always this way,
or did it take a forty year dope binge
for the hoarder to finally stir?
-
I wrote my name in the sidewalk at the foot of steps.
I search for a glimpse of myself in grimy water
and check under the bushes for garter snakes .
My stomping grounds have been wiped of footprints
and grandma’s violets don’t come in very well anymore.
They cut down the walnut tree, and got rid of the porch swing.
No time for whimsy, no time for strays.
The cicadas will sleep for ten more years, ‘til summer.

oh, the sun is burning hot
as the waves rise up off of the black top
forming the familiar distortion
distinctly laced with humidity.

the young man marches, toes exposed
with flip-flops smacking down
and on the verge of melting
to the grand avenue sidewalk.

fuzzy memories like warped records
spin their sharps and flats in awkward places
and bring scent trails of teenage years:
bonfires, exhaust, lingering birdcages.

kreckel's still serves the same lemon ice cream,
but the billiards out back have been closed for a time.
quarters spent on raiden fighters rust in time
as the men muttering in the background play bumper pool.

the heat still feels the same in present summer,
and some of the same faces stay on the card.
routine and commitments are starting to build,
blurring the expressions of familiarity into fog.

the young man marches, face exposed
to the blistering light of day
as lines start to form where charm has twinkled
in the schoolyard and stagnant hallways.

years spent in sleep are pulsating
as the lull between cicadas
seems to stretch the summers south
to the screeching of metallic showcases.

he's buckled to the cracks in the concrete
that bulge upward and trip drunks after last call.
unshackled only to ride shotgun with the few
that still remember their seventh grade summers.

The warning bell sounded, and heads did spin

In a full on exorcist twist.

Hearts and lungs on overdrive.

Max gear ***** race, go!

Eyes meeting, hardly a greeting.

Run for the horizon, little darling daredevils.

-

His legs are burning, her lungs are burning.

Can’t stop, can’t stop, won’t stop.

She sees the results and snickers.

Surrounded by searchers and sirens.

The schooling facility, a funeral pyre,

a gasoline catalyst. “All the same, stupid”.

-

Endless lines of lockers filled to limit.

Echoes of “run along to class!”.

Chunks of charcoal - Chambers of change.

Left on Fairview, right on King.

Watch out for Pauly’s pit bulls barking!

-

Down the hill on University avenue - Dead End.

Train tracks up the hillside, so climb!

View of the evidence;

Matchstick Mayhem Miracle Man.

Gasoline Gal, so elegant.

Smoke cloud, smoke cloud, our little secret.

Impress the granite impressions

Blue and black anti-reflections

Marbles flicked and jacks are scooped

Like the games we lose in endless loops

Hardly pass any standard detection

-

You haven’t heard the lover’s truth?

Dialed in from the last phone booth

In a town that has gone all mobile

Begging for a title so proud and noble

So they can sip their gin and Vermouth

-

Mass-printed art for bath room walls

So raised noses can judge while ******* in stalls

They only care for tags and brands

And they never stop to wash their hands

When they’re dressed to impress at the local mall

-

This is hardly a truth - hardly a lie

A middle ground opinion to make snarky girls cry

They say “He’s so enigmatic! What a beautiful soul!”

But deep down inside they just want my pole

Their improper word usage squeezes from me a sigh

-

You think tumblr is neato? You like showing your ****?

The lies flow like tar from primordial pits

Slowly creeping to the surface, but unending below

The smell catches hold before the obvious show

This is a pageant for show offs, not a battle of wits

-

But here I am still, begging for your love

A click or nice word is like a sign from above

Opinions that drive me off of the nearest cliff

A glance or a compliment to get me all stiff

Your nothing, save ignorant, but you fit like a glove

An eye for an eye was the reason we acted

You’re so far away and I can’t stop the fireworks

Talking the night away, the exhausted second meeting

A sip of ale from the singer in the graveyard

I never wanted to call to the Sun

But every morning I would cave in

I buried myself in an empty room

-

The trips were acidic to my tongue

Beaches filled with trinkets and sands

“Fish swim, forever free” you tell yourself

Now, Pisces, who is the one swimming?

Buried in the sands is what I remember

The other half is lost

-

Am I the one to defeat now?

The words that stained the walls are now sparkling white

Abandoned

“Now close you eyes and sleep” she wrote

I’m somewhere between the ponds and the highway

-        

The mimics and shadows match suit and play their roles

The words do no sting or stick

Tough as leather, from the arrows

That flowed from me like a river

-

This product is finished

Ignition improbable, idiot.

No courage and hardly a motive

-

Triplet years

Falling backwards

-

My head is buried

I need you to roll me a cigarette,

little girl. Give a twirl.

Flick the Bic and spindle your hair.

Will-O-Wisp in every curl.

Princely visions laced within your

every exhale  - sparkle fog. Alive,

thoughts so eager to dive and weave something vivacious

Memory’s mantra, colony hive.

-

We were born in a bog, favors never come easy.

Just stepping stones and play things

for the spoiled, the renegades, and identity seekers.

Impressed not by treks of rat kings.

Perhaps a crag will open up with a yawn

and swallow down towers of sheep-men.

Digesting their white picket vaults in the core.

Maybe I’ll get some sleep then.

-

Void Water throne room;

on golden stools they sit.

Not shiny chairs to squat on,

but the stool they crave to ****.

We lay in watch - cackling, amused -

As the chamber corrupts its own brood.

Together, we cast jubilant tones.

Beggar’s sphere language renewed.

-

Beneath the crooked branches of the walnut tree -

all bards fell silent. She riddles: “In which key?”.

The answer was the sound of ten-thousand vibrating wings.

Tethered no more by this umbilical chain
We break through the shell - Burst through the seed
Fingers laced and reaching up toward the big blue
Eyes gaining sight, sight meeting light
We bathe ourselves in the warming glow
Sol's sweet kiss to ease and simmer
Terra's touch to point the steps
We haven't much further to climb
-
Tree of Life - Home - Mother - Bed
Your roots we leave for Eden
Sky of Thought - Dream - Father- Blanket
Your wind will guide our wings
We gain friend in fire, rock, and storm
To tinker with the gifts of Titans
Together we rise and seek the stars
So we may spread the songs and preach the past
-
We go by Gaea, We go by God
Underneath our pagan star's shine
At night, symphonies will charm them
And we dance together until we fade
gain we lay into the palms of dream
The fingers of sleep, clench to a fist
Grinding us down to the finest of dusts
To glow and blow into the zephyrs
-

I’m nothing but a monolith of ice and gravel.

Stuck in these wintry doldrums.

Waiting, waiting for the time

when the birds return home and

Sol’s warm light puts life back in these bones of permafrost.

It is then she’ll come dancing and singing

like the days when we were young.

I sleep in a crater on the far side of the moon.
I tell tales to the moon-cats about the warm month of June.
We sing songs with no lyrics, because moon-cats don't speak;
while we wait for the pizza guy who's been late for a week.

I sleep in a tree in the west end of the park.
I stripped it of leaves and all of its bark.
I just bummed five bucks off of a guy jogging by;
he said "fight the power", and held his fist in the sky.

I sleep in my car, somewhere outside of Denver.
Don't ask for how long, I don't really remember.
I met a weird looking guy and he said "Hocus Pocus",
now I spend all of my days in the back of my Focus.

She only needed three fingers;
one for demands, one for insults, one to show love.
Her pinky made her feel too prim,
and her thumb made her feel like too much of an ape.
She had no need to hold on to anything,
and no reason to open any doors,
she just wanted a little silence from the thunder
and to see the cracks in the ground on a hot day.
One set of clothes for the doctor,
one set of clothes for the preacher,
and one set of clothes for the home.
She still has a forest green rotary phone with the ringer cut out
just incase the stove gets angry or the roof caves in.
She hated the Beatles and probably hates us,
but that's okay, we're not all that special, are we?

No water,
lights;
just her screech,
and that ****** tapping.

train pace
quaint face
indecisive stutter
faint lace
embrace
cloaked behind the shutter

roving revolver revisions
inflict internally incubated incremental incidents
spit right in his ******* face
separation. moksha.  
hypodermic hypocrisy

copper lined veins
keep pumping
filth =
into your eyes

When I was a kid,
folding chairs
were my kryptonite.

This is not a poem,
but an image representing one.

I gaze into the lapis lazuli embedded behind your eyes

And I read the words that are engraved on its pristine surface

“I hide in the dust of diamonds and bathe in Luna’s glow”

Inscriptions of a fiery passion from the heart of Aphrodite

What deities were praised to conjure such an immaculate apparition?

A vesper turned mortal by the north wind

Gilded in the feathers of seraphs-on-high

And garbed in the fineries of the seventh son of a seventh son

I wish you only knew of the brier we planted

But your eyes are always on the stars

I watch you pluck every note from the air

So vibrant, and eager to pass the jug around

-

Think of me too, Artemis, Baste

As the coals twinkle and turn

These moments have always been yours to burn

And I am but a goat - veiled and masked

-

Home is far, but I have my thoughts

I have my brother of tune

My thanks for the smoke, Sylvan Queen

I only wish your eyes weren’t hidden

-

We were flea-bitten in the first burrow

And found gold in the next

Red cardinal be swift, I carry many gifts

But I just don’t want to be in the middle right now

At dawn's first light, she awakens,
casting off her grey stone shell.
Her skin reflects Old Sol's blaze,
revealing no sign of age or blemish.

She takes to the tower's spiral staircase,
descending with the timely grace
of Autumn's auburn leaves falling.
To the pier, she walks alone.

She comes to rest on an ivory throne
and casts her gaze upon the mountainside.
Dining on dates and a spectrum of berries
as she solemnly inspects every summit and base.

Sailing down from overhead,
a hunting falcon attempts to catch a view
of the maiden seated on her chiseled cloud.
She neither blinks, nor turns. Eyes set upon the jagged rocks.

Her purpose is frightful, but she continues.
From eras since passed and still to unhatch,
she waits for the mountains to come alive.
Once more, she will tend to her hard-set herd.

the sunday crowd wait in line
in their pretty sundresses
in their buttoned up shirts
in their sunday best
unbeknownst to them
god can be found in the filthy gutter
as easily as the chapel halls  
where the potlucks draw the crowd
when the sermons run dry
and the coffee gets cold

The smoke clouds the room
with a thick fog of false confidence
and we can’t help but breathe it all in
We seek to absorb what we can’t have
and embrace every thing that brings us harm
I see you standing there alone
and I hear your soul singing
the same song as mine
The song that harmony and dissonance
cannot define

In the temple built from straw,
humanity gives way to something animal.
Primal chanting of age of songs
and the hypnotic undulating of carnal dance
mark that spirits of the eldest
have arrived from their planar journey.

In the temple built from wood,
baubles have been blessed by the watcher.
Portraits crying oil, and statues carved from ivory
that slurp up spoonfuls of goat's milk.
Even the patron's tongues are sacred;
spouting the language of the birds.

In the temple built from stone,
all entrances have been sealed from view.
The scriptures are now so sacred
that they resonate only within these walls.
Soothing secrets for the selected pious
who give God their gold so graciously.

In the temple of the wolf
there is but one parishioner present.
No doors, no floors, no walls or ceilings;
just keen eyes and a mind unclouded.
Breathing and dreaming worship
within his body most holy.

Melancholy miracles mask my madness
An altered air arises
Gilded, glowing, globes glide, guarding garish Gods
I illustrate illegitimate integrity in incarnadine
Corporeal creations cast crimson

I crawled out kicking and screaming, born from the fires of a Dragon’s throat

My tongue created the blasphemy of which all demons spoke

My entrails are lined with sulfur, my heart pumps mercury

Fear provides me a humble bliss and anger shelters me


Upon your belly you shall go

And dust shall you eat all of your days

You shall be the lowest form of life

Cursed you’ll be until you meet your grave


By my hand I impale the remorseful king

And by my fires I purged his soul

Remarking as the ember quenched

Thus your crown is scorched and dull


Upon your belly you shall go

Crawling helplessly all of your days

You are the lowest form of life

You shall receive none of my praise

The crumbling husk of a little brown spider
chases after a swatted fly.
Not for a meal to replenish his brittle figure,
but because he envies such a glorious death.
This day is not for the covetous,
nor for the weaver. That eight fingered hand.
This is a day marked for interment by rain.
Both to be washed in Gaea's reshaping womb.

If God made dirt, and dirt don't hurt,
then why do we feed it the dead?
Whether mogul, scholar, radical, or drifter-
in soil we are stripped of semblance and class.
Man, beast, lain down as equals - offerings
to a hungry celestial wanderer.
The soaring nomad, mindlessly migrating.
Circling an eye of fire. Star sailing.

Ashes and dust. Blood and bone.
Thought and memory. Feeling and dream.
Our lives are poured into a basin of stone,
from a pitcher containing the constellations.
Every drop, a cosmic reflection
tethered by a silver cord to the present.
The perspective of heroes and house flies
is separated only by sensation.

Parental love could shatter the eggshell persona of a rascal young man
who carved ***** rhymes into the boy’s bathroom stalls,
who doesn’t understand the point of deadlines,
who saves his milk money to spend on strike anywhere matches
to burn shed bark from the maple in the back of the park.
He remembers the days before mom rediscovered her vices;
the days when there were cocktail meatballs and Christmas cookies.
Those years he will never get back now seem stringy, translucent,
and barely clinging to the fault lines of a shifting mind.
One day he will think of those cookies and taste bitter almonds
as his checking account becomes overdrawn,
as the fix-a-flat in his tire doesn’t stop the escaping air,
as he slips into the warm blanket of Bombay Sapphire.

A silver glow lines your delicate form

as we dance to the hymns of the new summer’s crickets.

-

The grass trembles beneath your nimble feet

when you spin in the smoky wind.

-

I will nestle in the long tresses of your ruby hair

and hide from time’s watchful eye.

-

Moths circle in flocks, for they see our yearning as it really is;

a spout of light pouring into the on looking stars. (The shining embers that mark our youth)

-

They cling to us. Cloaks of spores, flowing like creeks,

cascading in the wisps of campfire.

-

We abandon our carved idols and earthly trinkets,

stumbling, wild-eyed in the dark.

-

Tonight is for the neverlasting present,

and the merry circles we spin in its guise.

-

Her faun eyes were gleaming.

I am but a simple creature. (Oh, go running again little boy)

-

Spin me a cocoon

and tonight let the sleep come lightly.

There is a thing that lives in a cave in the woods

A desperate and silent villain

We keep it at bay with one simple secret

DV UVVW RG GSV YPMMW MU MFI XSRPWIVN

He comes in the hour of the wispy dew

There is only one thing that can purge him

At the foot of the hills beneath the mist

DV HPRG GSV GSIMZG MU Z ERITRN

With an elder’s body and a serpent’s tongue

He licks at the altar with hunger

Revealing the scar he loves to bear

SV RI NZIQVW DRGS GSV WVERP’H NFOYVI

He comes again and again, night after night

We can’t keep up with the slaughter

To make sure his belly is never unfilled

DV NFHG RNLIVTNZGV ZPP MU MFI WZFTSGVIH

The safety of the black, winding, snake of a trail is like an arrow pointing me home.

I flee from this serpent of tar, for the promise of discovery awaits me at the bottom of the hill.

I’m surrounded on all sides by the Sylvan Queen, her antlered familiars, and her army of trees.

I need only to march east to return to the realm of men and metal, but the woods beckon still.

I blanket myself under the brittle fallen leaves that have felt autumn’s kiss and gravity’s hand.

With hesitance, I find myself starting to give in to Gaea’s soft spell of slumber.

I hear the hymns of the birds in their language true and old.

I see the dreams of the cicadas painted vibrantly in the overcast sky.

Lofty

Aimlessly floating
Destination unknown

Inspiration escaping grasp
Silver lining lost
Pages left unturned

Cloudy is the day
Restless is the night
Left to recklessly dream
Within a thoughtless mind

Sleep is the only seclusion
For dreaming will not cease
Oh, such a keen villain
She is waiting so silently
Mouth watering; ready to strike

esophageal flames.
shots of whiskey with a bleach chaser
on wednesday where the sky is clouded over
and the strays stick close to the watering hole.
pepto becomes water
to ***** the fires from within
while the alarm clock blinks 12:00
because I haven't set the time.

There is a demon behind you

I would never tell you a lie

He’ll tear your heart from your body

If you look him in the eye

He’s a hungry and quiet killer

And tonight he feels great joy

He doesn’t get to eat that many

Attractive girls and boys

You summoned him up by reading these words

I’m sorry I waited to say

This demon and I work hard ever still

To live off of a writer’s pay

I lay the traps and he gets to eat

And in return I receive

Thirty pieces of silver,

And a wardrobe you wouldn’t believe

I could spend lifetimes staring at

the half-lit wick that glows behind your eyes

That twinkle that make the stars seem sickly

and the dawn seem a dreary maze

-

Fear may be the mind killer

but anticipation goes for the heart

Breathing to break the anxious calm

that accompanies this unknowing

-

Yours are the words that bound me

and yours are the words that beckoned me into the fire

This is my punishment

Without you, I fall

I offer my eternal homage

To the conflagration of spheres and jaws

For too long you’ve been sealed from my realm

By fear and by ancient laws

-

With this offering of flawless life

I grant you passage into my plane

Let this earthly shell be your tool

I give my blood, my soul, and my brain

-

Oh, great lurker at the threshold

Let your will be known

So omnipresent, so perfect, all knowing

May all power be yours to hone

-

The all-in-one shall again return

To bleed the universe dry

With the knowledge of the rift intact

Your feeble race and all others will die

I trade my footing for liquid paradise

An aquatic Eden of my design

Isolation is a lullaby

Publicity is the nightmare that follows

Steadily sinking below the waves

My glory waits at the lake bed

No one to see me here as the darkness intensifies

I seek only the silence that the surface lacks

My body goes limp as the waves move me

Sinking has never been so uplifting

As my body gently reaches the bottom

The last of the air leaves my lungs

It will not be missed

I am content here in my dark paradise

It is quiet

It is calm

It is lonely

Peace and tranquility at last

tick-tock motions colliding with still-beating carrion
carrying itself to the back of a ninty-two Toyota Corolla
cracked window crack smoke with the gravel and gum wrappers
specters radiate their hue and render ol' Baker Boy into a heap

there is a shaking on the surface.

wet gravel and neon dance through squinting eyes
passenger pigeon with nocturnal aspirations  
you're in that place now

******* up souls and spitting out spells
from tentacles with lips at the tips that talk.
Belching out blasphemies from the birth of filth,
that causes the blood to boil from within.
One single eye to pierce the fear filled mind;
a glare that bores - gray matter hungry probe.
The color of wretched bile, with a similar scent.
An oozing beast that has haunted the aeons;
speaking through nightmares and whispering
a supply of chilly lies into the ears of brittle men.

Karzak Gordra on high
Dwell within the murky depths
of man's rotten mind

Swim to your meal, Karzak Gordra
Make home in the dark
and pass over the young

Karzak Gordra on high
Fear naught, filthy lad
Weep for me in days to come

On the index of existence my name is erased

I am forgotten in the eyes of your lord

My name can’t be uttered by your human tongue

I am the vessel in which fear is poured

-

I sit on my throne of nothing

I wait for my time to return

By sin or by fire, I’ll wipe the slates clean

In my name all the worlds will burn

-

I gorge my belly on the runes of the past

I drink from the fountain of tears

My right hand contains the power of malice

My left hand holds the darkness to awaken your fears

-

I sit on my throne of nothing

My wrath is mighty and old

By hate or by suffering, I’ll wipe the slates clean

In my name the stars will grow cold

Drink like Kerouac,
Smoke like Bukowski.
Wait...
is that backwards?

An unusual crowd gathers

I can make out faces through every window

Blank, staring, sea of faces

Eyes fixed on the hillside across the way

My house seems only an obstruction

An optical obstacle obscuring an oncoming out pour

Unblinking they look at that overgrown hill

Where the wild brush spreads and those old rails stay planted

Stretching east to west

Those ******* rails that those ******* trains

would rumble down at four in the morning

Blaring their horns and shaking my bed

Until the sun woke up on schedule, like clockwork

Over and down the hillside, water starts to trinkle

Slipping and sliding

How ghastly it grows

From stream to spout

to rivers with rapids

Until the tidal wave shows its face - blank, staring

Eyes fixed on me

In the face of the end, I turn and flee

So many loved ones and trinkets to save

But the water is up to my knees

And the crowd - unmoving, unthinking

Without a gasp or a word of dismay

They open their mouths to drink in the doom

Parched since the prelude for the secession of air

Too late for nostalgia

Impact.

Empty handed the crow and dove shall return

The man who can't read came to visit today,
he sung along to each song that the radio played.
The track marks and scabs wove a story of bother;
of a life cut off short, my uncle, his father.

The man who can't read can fix anything:
a gasket, a hinge, a lever, a spring.
He pedals his bike and sweats up a storm,
no lights, no water, just part of his norm.

The man who can't read used to play in the yard;
we'd catch crickets under bricks, and skin knees til they scarred.
Garter snakes hid under the walnut tree
and we'd catch one in each hand and grandma would flee.

The man who can't read has been told that he's dumb,
that he smells like an ashtray and looks like a ***.
He still owns a picture of when we were young,
when we lived in the house where the picture was hung.

If you’re surrounded by people in fanciful dress,
who only take advice from peers they want to impress,
just remember that soon you’ll be home in your bed
where the only racket is the thoughts in your head.

The leaves will change color and the skies will turn grey,
the sun will go hiding early on in the day,
the chimneys will smoke, the nights will stay strange,
and we’ll lose track of time keeping track of the change.

You are the shelter, my egg.
A half-reflection of my time here.
I write with your hands,
I see through your eyes -
Green as the street where we spent
the two decades that meant the most.

So hip that you dissolved one of yours.
Always bringing the truth to the surface.
Not a law, a threat, or problem to stop you.
Defined by a friendly face and welcoming tone.
Refined by a southern hand and an era of sinners.
A mother to us all.

These words are all I have to give;
You taught me every last one.
Letters arranged to define the world.
Even though you know my intentions,
Remember, I do this because you let me be me.

You deserve enlightenment and laughter
Forever and again.