this September may rain embrace
your shallow skull, your wounded smile
may rain embrace your cristal voice
your shallow skull, your wounded smile

deep buried in the bluish sky, clouds of forgiving dew
pour silence into nothingness
may rain embrace your skull, your bones
soft as thin paper lost beneath the ground

soft as a kiss your mouth once moaned upon my lips
and never found again poison as sweet
deep buried in the Prussian field the bluish corpse
dissolves itself under the stars

this September may rain embrace
your shallow skull, your wounded smile
may rain embrace your cristal voice
your shallow skull, your wounded smile

a sky of caring
a rabbit foot on a chain

two 6 packs
3 friends

take me back to the river
by the railroad tracks

and shelly
and keats
and junior kimbrough

take me back
to the river by the railroad tracks

and the flat pennies we held
in the palms of our hearts


fall
is a forgiving season

so take me back to the river by the tracks

where the river runs
deep
and wide
and the memories have souls

He is a link between this and the coming world.
He is
A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink.


He is a tree watered by the River of Beauty, bearing
Fruit which the hungry heart craves;
He is a nightingale, soothing the depressed
Spirit with his beautiful melodies;
He is a white cloud appearing over the horizon,
Ascending and growing until it fills the face of the sky.
Then it falls on the flows in the field of Life,
Opening their petals to admit the light.
He is an angel, send by the goddess to
Preach the Deity's gospel;
He is a brilliant lamp, unconquered by darkness
And inextinguishable by the wind. It is filled with
Oil by Istar of Love, and lighted by Apollon of Music.


He is a solitary figure, robed in simplicity and
Kindness; He sits upon the lap of Nature to draw his
Inspiration, and stays up in the silence of the night,
Awaiting the descending of the spirit.


He is a sower who sows the seeds of his heart in the
Prairies of affection, and humanity reaps the
Harvest for her nourishment.


This is the poet -- whom the people ignore in this life,
And who is recognized only when he bids the earthly
World farewell and returns to his arbor in heaven.


This is the poet -- who asks naught of
Humanity but a smile.
This is the poet -- whose spirit ascends and
Fills the firmament with beautiful sayings;
Yet the people deny themselves his radiance.


Until when shall the people remain asleep?
Until when shall they continue to glorify those
Who attain greatness by moments of advantage?
How long shall they ignore those who enable
Them to see the beauty of their spirit,
Symbol of peace and love?
Until when shall human beings honor the dead
And forget the living, who spend their lives
Encircled in misery, and who consume themselves
Like burning candles to illuminate the way
For the ignorant and lead them into the path of light?


Poet, you are the life of this life, and you have
Triumphed over the ages of despite their severity.


Poet, you will one day rule the hearts, and
Therefore, your kingdom has no ending.


Poet, examine your crown of thorns; you will
Find concealed in it a budding wreath of laurel.

The low yellow
moon above the
Quiet lamplit house.

some things, too soft for my careless hands — nectarine kisses and sunlit skin. the quiet highs of being held, like dahlias dying after a month. vervain wrists dipped in a borrowed prose. your heart — and mine; my love, some things, too soft to not break in my hands.

Her wings are flailing,
Bare through the blessings of Earth,
And rains of sorrows.

i think that people take their love for granted
because i—
i’ve spent every waking night
of every aching month
dressed in every shade of you except your touch
i love and lose and hurt
and lust
your memory cannot sustain—your memory
is not enough—
to simply have your presence is the
thing for which i blow—
on candles
angel numbers, dandelions—even snow

and why, i always wonder
do so many that i know
take their love nearby for granted—
that’s one thing i’ll never know