The voice of the audience
The narrator in the woods
The misdirect in subtitle
Exposition comes in floods
Foreshadowing
Foreboding
Before the final reel
Trying to leapfrog
The meaning
Before the big reveal.

Created a world
just for me
Not for you
don’t you see,
Not letting you in
Your a parasite,
Your so twisted
Your just not right,
I know your beautiful
So voluptuous in red
But if I let you in
I will wind up dead.
Go away and
Leave me be
You are a beauty
But not for me,
Your to infectious
This is not your day
Im taking the pills
Now stay away.

Bones threaded with silence,
a weft of unseen tides,
drowned before the sky could murmur,
names twisted into half-light.

Empty calls carve through marrow,
a dissonance stitched in the flicker
of unspoken skies,
twisting where shadows breathe.

Flesh frays in the void of mouths
that never opened—
rusted hums too thin to grasp.

Skin unthreads,
and what remains burns in the air
like a scream that cannot form.

Dust to dust—
the thread severed
in half-thoughts,
too distant to bleed,
too numb to remember.

To:  Patty m. and Steve,
cc:   Q

Re: what’s a mediocre man to do,

(freshly mind washed by the
requisite hours of deep sleep,
that washed away the webs
and dreads of yesterday’s
factoids, lactoids, and brain plaques(

so he can perchance, begin again,

(with fresh slate, white chalk screeching
on a freshly sponged whiteboard
~
(or blackboard when he rues the
upcoming with dreaded calendar
notifications notarized notations of
dead lines)

You see Stevie,
this piety poetry piercing of the soul,

(is a daily face washing, soul scrubbing
of two spies (MadMe vs  Metwo) both madder ‘n hell that life has ***-signed him a nother bothersome empty day with the curse
of justifying his existence)

oh yeah baby,
it’s a contest, a contest within,

(and i am appointed and  disappointed to be
the Sec’y of the Interior who has the key to
the broom closet, and is/in charge of his
own corners cleanup, and besides a broom,
he ain't got no tools but stale words and he’s gotta figure out nice smelling new combos to
justifying his occupying his
siloed-sole-soully space place)

in the uni(as in sole, one)verse

universe verse, get it?
445am Monday Monday

i could feel your touch even though you are miles away
lost in the thoughts of you and suddenly it’s 4 in the morning
“cigarettes smoke and my black jacket hold,
holds your aroma and our clothes on the floor”
hysterical of me to be this close
i opened my eyes and it’s 12 on the clock
it was a dream, a reverie never to be disclosed
of who it is about but one reader will know for sure

These faces, everywhere—
shadows in the crowd.
They whisper, they doubt,
as if I am dust in the wind,
unworthy of the storm.

And them—who were they?
Once, they were my shelter,
my sanctuary, my sun.
Now, they are echoes in hollow halls,
leaving me an empty vessel,
a grave where love once bloomed.