by: William A. Marshall

I disrobe and survey
noiseless instruments so
austere rather dreary
colored walls that reflect
unemotional elements I
ask for another blanket
so sterile a fragrance
like nothingness fill my
nose eyes float disregarding
back to the strangeness of
time moving as sounds of
feet flap in the corridor
I wait then as a subdued
knock at the door my
immortal sketch filters this
time but I broaden with
unpredicted comfort receptions
you can only receive when people
are not well an agreeable scene
professional mollycoddling
no fussy clinging of inseams
that ruin atmospheres
I go head on into obscurity
as a nurse asked in a puzzled
way about my faith she
was confused by my notes
about Dostoyevsky
I provided in that portion
of the form she wanted
to know irrespective of what
the other staff told her
I shook my head with
acceptance responding with a
vague originality the back of my
mind thinking what if I don’t
return - a way that is disconcertingly
adequate and peaceful and quiet
I notice my garments stuffed
into a clear plastic bag
to be received by somebody
upon my possible reemergence
locating a theme in time
and a lack of difficulty with everything
not interfered with but
unexpectedness actually the minutes
move away knowing that I will
not remember spike introduced
to vein as they examine the
drips of dose inhalations mounted
in my face muffled voices
fade the syringe is plunged
I know the train is now
approaching down the
track but I am not uneasy for
some reason talking more
about nothing while people move
the morning flows mechanically
without me like water
in a brook never to be
seen again chatting melodically
then calmness where I had
gone that wintertime morning
I can’t remember all I was
content though on that cradle
I know it was suitable late the process
had taken and imagined into an abode
that I no longer recall smiling
knowing it was a delightful place
where people take you into
their care peeking slowly then
through the fog when I glanced at
my wife assured by the cup of coffee
that she offered
and recovery rinsed over me
a return to my existence like returning
from death

by: William A. Marshall


I stepped off the world
today,
off the broken streets
that winter has damaged
and municipal assessments
off the political gluttons
and performative marks
off the know-it-alls
and wild dogs roving around
with their ****
noses in the air
it’s not pretty
they cover what they don’t know
so that they look good
I head back down the dark hallway
to get a more primitive angle
off of privileged confidence
they are vulnerable
basic caretakers pursuing opulent corsages
to free them from their anxious quotas
and ******* rules
telling me how to wipe my ***
and how to use baby wipes
jointly acting like they run things
from their phony utilitarian bus stop
and cutting-edge applications
their personal band plays a cheerful tune
in the background
as they search for a bigger
advantage and more likes
even though we all share the same horror
youth is about mistakes
and making money
and choices with one eye here and now
the other eye on prevalent professions
students and maintenance men
bureaucratic puppets and academics
farmers and auditors
sales greasers and coaches
writers and board members
somewhere they end up there
carrying a liability
and it creates a vibration in my foxhole
but right in here baby
deep down within me
inside my tomb
I transfer to a silent
place away from
rambling rotting fungus
I step off of it
not always methodically
and then back into faults
and louse packs
I can only assume my rock
that sits in my hole immobile
next to the ****** candy wipes
unless I push it up ontic peaks
nonbeing begins to doubt me
and grips part of you so don’t
think that it doesn’t
I cut it with my knife
obliquely
finding unfortunate contagions
and courage down in the vault of silence
it is there or it isn’t
it is what keeps my will interested
far from the ones moving rashly
without it you would leap from bridges
through minefields I remember
a certain detachment
an uneven and sick progression
paperwork and a number with
a D affixed to its file
the ceiling became the nightly norm
this plastic vacuum-packed
wedding gown made of white silk
made weird noises
in the back of my closet
like it was weeping
the kind of dress
only worn once
it smelled like her that closet
retelling me each time
I opened the private door
making fake crinkling sounds
an icon of pure young tenderness
love expense and faith
eventually cooked and burned  
but it is too early
those individuals that gloat in pictures
and dream about their prince
they are busy playing with
their hair and organic shoulder bags
driving around in furnished cars
the uncorrupted ones
constant courses to come and
subsequent interviews
nailed skintight dresses
soon to be colored sweet red
with danger competing
well you had better feel lucky
because when you plunge into
future swamplands
incompetence and repayment
of what to do with it
and how then to
fill up your cup
without spilling it
all over your soul
don’t tell me how
to live my **** life
now is your time
to reason and shake imperfection
interruptions
over and over
those that listen to your intrusiveness
false performances in chic coffee shops
it is not sustainable there
but you play the part to maintain
your chair in the cooperative
you will miss it
neglecting real evil
because you were talking too much
maintaining your image
Bradbury whispers
from the counter,
“You can't make people listen
they have to come round in
their own time wondering
what happened and why
the world blew up around them
it can't last.”
and numbness above nightly cocktails
distracted dub tracks
ultimately attending
hectic personnel meetings
in drenched swamps
spinning with heartless ***** jobs
unconcerned about safe comforts
two things balance them out
people and things
all part of it out there in the world
and they approach like a train
suffering shocks
unemotional images in chambers
some actually never return
from the beatings
but this isn’t the end
this is a commencement
for me
the forecast is water-resistant
they hurry snatching their
body spray and shower gel
on mirrored reflections
that scowl back at them
all alone there
in their glass steeple
family photos
thinking they have nurtured something
more than endless gossip
and ****** strains
much more important now
bent into independence
pausing with the approaching sunrise
as it splashes powerfully
inside their speculations
pride doesn’t care
if you think you are not puffed-up
at all you are
who in the hell are you kidding?
nothing to cling to
essential oilskins and manuscripts
credit problems
and autobiographical *** packed expressions
corner office windows
and diplomas
behind high-back chairs
trying to copy Sunday magazine’s
hottest statement
to fill up their life
a reminder just who the comics are
but it does not register
until that day
when it becomes intolerably vile
beneath wreckage
and burnt ruins
they find his
caring donation
clinched in the saviors grasp
jutting through burning garrisons
there is no truth more senior
than this truth here and now
but they can’t all be imparted
in this culturally planned folklore
I see them
when I am walking away
from the insulated bubble
down the street
like recruits in boot camp
and zealously rich parents
who send their youngsters
with luggage and loans
nearby like idols
salesman explaining things
as they nod like they are approving something
perhaps autonomy
from fathers and mothers
who stand with them astutely contemplating
the whole arrangement
they stare at the marble floor
I observe the run-through
the glittery entertainment
and documented departments
for happy pilgrims
who are insulated
for now

by: William A. Marshall

Don’t dress me up,
All neat and strapped tense,
That costume for my demise,
Does not make sense.
My last gulp was taken,
Zigzagging down the hall,
Gathered about the puzzle,
Sheep held up the wall.
Why be sharp now?

It was too late.
It was too late.

That room so bare,
The look of the other - so ornate.
Traditional, cold, and vague,
My train seemed too quick,
Dazed and completely plagued,  
There was time, but not for me,

Our time comes then goes.
Our time comes then goes.

They say the gas burns and stinks,
That furnace so boiling white,
Orange coals and turbulence,
My bone scattered fight,  
I got off that train with no despair,
My hands reached glories gate,
So then wait for the wind,
Dusk swollen and gray,
Then heave me up high,
So my ashes can play.

by: William A. Marshall

They want an audience
for you to
admire them
a meeting or some sort
where they can appear
central,
they need it to breathe
laughing
always monitoring
their carnival
they say,
“oh look, look,
that is so interesting, yes, yes,”
but they are not
down there
in there,
they are indifferent
their gallery is sanitary
and sterile,  
if you nod they praise you
they’ll promote you,
they wanting everything
to be bright
but if you deny them
they’ll take your money
sling you down,
down to the floor
under tables
where ants and spiders
fight for crumbs
alone,
you grab the window sill,
pull yourself up
off the floor
your index finger
is covered,
with lard and grime
that ultimately turns
to dust.

by: William A. Marshall

There was an isolated
strangeness,
exposed and rock dry
an eclectic barbed ether
drifted through
the gaps
and inflamed trails,
like a phantom wrapping
its finger spikes
around me,
still and dangerous
objective and so honest
I noticed its
recommendations
nothing to prove and
nothing to demonstrate
nothing to procure
it could care less
about me
about you,
the bloodshot arroyo
where everything was still
a red war god observing
the prominent cliffs,
guarding night and day
a sunrise so vivid
piercing through rock
walls that followed
me down there,
in there, I was
with salty scorpions
and milled sand grit
perverted junipers peppered
the floor and
**** rocks - everywhere,
they fell and died
when they were ready,
I did not notice one
plunge, but my *****
alerted my soul
with each abrupt drop-off
its hasty nothingness
and the world continued
to spin,
visit and hook
this desert wind shocks
regardless of what I believe
and I felt there,
I notice that nothing counted
there was nothing to prove
- unspoiled.
a perfect shattered wasteland,
go ahead and tell
me your position
while my horse
looks up ahead for
the next creek
for shade or serpents
in the sand,
the desert is apathetic
comparable to those
in tall glass buildings
with white collars
that creep and strangle,
the red rocks still plummet
with or without
us there
and you and I
will too, I thought
I would see
one fall, but
it was
not
time

by: William A. Marshall

we fill a pig
we fill the job
we fill in the blank
we fill a **** tank
our plot of dirt
and wreathed granite
we fill our gut
we fill the dish
we fill a wall
with frame
and single-mindedness
we fill our cup
we fill a slot
we fill up the dog
with greasy scraps
that no one wanted
since they’re full
and we seal friends
with cake from cheap
card board boxes
stuffed with sugar
and nonsense
we fill our kids
with what we want
we fill a prison
we fill our brain
and cabbage chest
that eventually rots
and smells
like old Roses De Chloé
and Loreal pigment
we fill our *******
crows feet with collagen
instead of admiring them
like the meritorious stripes  
that they are
they rest in ashen dust
gin vapor and vehicle identity
finally blows up
and floats away
like a bad check
a shadow on the landing
up high,
a sun drenched butte
where lupine and sage grows
out of touch from hectors
reaching what counts,
quiet breezes can be heard
shrilling through the rock
and now bare
dignity never shows up
at times like this,
vultures hover over
the empty can of a carcass
and bones that once stood
just and ran full
and fought clashes,
nothing is full now
and what matters
most is
now
empty.