Their behavior is horrific
but they look like you or me
they don’t have horns
or sharp fangs
they have no fur or claws
their tame faces and clean cut part
a municipal duster in their hair
scented ivy suits and black pumps
behind fortified bars and tolls
force their rage and terrorize “chumps”  
nonetheless oblivious to an afterlife
this Will to Power breathes in shady rooms
just above ****** squeals –
genocide and late night beat downs
a wolf’s sight is sharper at night,
wicked lives next door  
near those you meet
just outside Darwin’s Place
on a cozy street  
tangled like Dingoes and Panda bears
that can’t stop themselves from
eating their young,
there are animals among us.

by: William A. Marshall
10-17-2014

We can only protect
that which we plant,
nothing can stop what comes
rain falls on an endless needlepoint
under a light blue heaven,
yet horror bolts down
from the firm millstone  
that holds still like prey  
it notices the night hunter
and must leave the sun
on his way.

by: W. A. Marshall

There’s a thornbush blocking my path
its branches shudder
from dust devils
like the tormented
coat of a colt -  
the spectral bush must burn,
for me to see
through the canonical flees
that clutter the infinite path.

My splendor is disguised however,
it hides inside my chest
I point to my breast
a parched mark of the sun,
cauterized by nations,
an open country itemization
goes further now
with the bush burned and gone  
down into a damp stairwell
the lane leads me -
where I can hear
distant hammering of fists
on rusty cellar doors
beyond view from mounted kings.

Their whispers never heard
a fat consequence
that I shave away and away
day after day
in order to admit to myself
my impatience inside a palisade
causes me to stagger.

To escape my flight
or hide when the dark night
creeps on fog and seed
howling winds blow
down the staircase
and into the cellar
where the moon collapses softly
along my reoccurring path.

There is no escape
from the subjective
rider -
with loose reigns  
and ranting minutiae
about an objective horse
that approaches
a weary
tempest wind.

by: W. A. Marshall

Two hypodermic needles
in a Diamondbacks head
shoot expensive venom
then nothing is said  

but its decision
to go poisonous
instead of bite-dry
comes with a cost
for you and I.

Antiquity has no birthplace
but its endless events
are interlocked in our mind
in such a manner
that when disjointed
they provide useful parts
for our looking glass,

I remember my sword
it was flanked by sidewinders
and jet fumes by day
baby oiled skin-so-soft at night
ceremonial prize fights
like Lamotta stunning
and staggering
refusing to go down
each door was an oyster
to be ripped open,

a cost loomed for my bitterness
my skin was now ripe
showing wears like a pear
signs of damage
each a dynamic puzzle piece
an appraisal of events,

I found myself staring
at things, you know –
floating clouds and sunsets
baby blue skies
violas on fire
with bumble bees
making love to all
the cone flowers
while nectar rains
down on yellow
and black prairie finches,

things I never noticed
because I was too **** busy
with my lousy tape
and chin-straps
before empathy
and before kindness
became more well-defined
for me
when I was caught up
in a “make-believe”
angry world,

I remember when
heading over the bridge
for morning muster
in a five hundred dollar
decomposed blue Chevy wagon
that I never told anyone about
because it was too humiliating
as I chased my father,

some never notice anything
on a globe where life
is lived forward
and only understood backwards
now Kierkegaard and I
sipping wine in coach,

this bygone formula
where each calculation
is carved out of stone
now has value per chapter
that I must clench  
or I will miss eternally.

by: W. A. Marshall

To consider only those opinions
that confirm a particular belief
only destroys light
and ***** marrow
from the truth -

yet divisions baste
when courage affirms
the emperors liability.