by: W. A. Marshall

There is one thing that will never change
regardless of ones tribal theology
or sociopolitical street-hood,
people are indifferent
to their own damaged beauty
and yet we are all fearful
of something down there -
we follow the tides like schools of fish
searching for water
They want solutions without pain
They want rebellion without revision

by: W. A. Marshall

as the acorn holds
a matchless scheme
for an unspoiled oak
my soul has a unique
plan for me -
from a silent space  
my being thrived
inversely the seed
was not voguish
it yearned for nothing
but sunlit sap and water
no conditioning or
distressed peers
absorbing fermented
tonics to burn wizards
it merely wanted
to be -
we appear scrambled
and blind to our
internal essence
about what we are
so we refuse
to stay inert
like a bomb
worried records
tell me so -
genomic bands that
once swirled in darkness
where essence surfaced
in search of poise
down in there
I closed my eyes  
and Aquinas’ played
amid authority to act  
in smoky darkness -  
It is I that shines a light  
so my soul can sit
calmly beside me.

by: W. A. Marshall

There was rawness
in the air
silent trees
and turning leaves
up there -  
a misunderstanding
of wounded egoists
in red gold wrappers
against measureless blue
nothing could stop her now
from shifting her messengers
knuckle white meat
little rat feet
crackling their collection
of bits on tree twigs
dropping mortars
on my metal roof
like sporadic gunfire
reminding me
of scrap heaps
that lay stone cold  
under condensed
damp days  
but gently near
this internal junction -
being intimate
with a mortal sunset
when my exceptional
summer is gone.

by: W. A. Marshall

I made the error
of checking the news
I rarely do that - anymore
dying death and attackers flight
court case narratives
Kubler Ross provisions
to lodge suspicious elites
denial and angry bargains
a process where authorities
preach their position
the bulletins remain unchanged
but my stage of hope
dwells there

by: W. A. Marshall
6-6-2014

the spherical motion
a pedal clicked in chrome
like pistons on a train
this continual flowing
equalized organization
of carbon-fiber, trickling over
soft tar and grit -
alfalfa dancing like
a thousand green strippers
for the pastured stallion
goldfinches with spring plumage
and red winged black-birds
calling,
cautioning the field
my escort into
the silent winds
a conflict that coerces
blood further inside
my swollen veins,
and my lungs and heart
labor to find fresh air
in a country of drivers
with disturbed faces
in vehicles that hurry by
fading into oblivion
but I and thou glide firmly
burning –
in the moment
of my self-contained
fire.

it can trench and channel
you - a deep conscious gulf
mother narrating,
“the connection is bad
I can hardly hear you,”
but you know **** well
it isn’t the phone
you think to yourself
as you chat, something
has progressed –
this thing is stirring
not eternal
so you lean in
attending honorably
to her while she
talks to her pain
and updates you
about father,
you do the right thing,
because you care
and because she wiped
your *** and fed you
warm sweet milk (at night),
and rubbed menthol
on your chest
when you couldn’t breathe
and your arrogance
fades into nothingness
with each sunset  
you steadily slow
and the know it all spawn
who has the whole ****
thing figured out
stares at his plate
issuing predictions
like you don’t know
what the hell you -
are talking about
and your mind flashes
back in time
from mother to son
when you were so willing
to see the world
your parents were
just a barrier
to the open road
and bottles of six
it’s comical that way
how things drift
in circles
so quick loose,
the golden valediction
the ghost plate
has not proceeded
but is forever altered
where his way leads.

we spoke softly
on this rainy morning
in a sterile hospital
room,
both wounded
by blood soul
and lymphocytes
not friendly fire,
a soft knock at the door
the physician entered
gallantly - smiling
and shook both
of our hands
with confidence
he provided his forecast,
we were stunned
by the revolver
with the
cocked hammer
and everything
that once was ordinary
and permanent,  
was abruptly transient
and detached
we clutched our
sweaty hands
into nihility
staring at the slugs
in the cylinder  
of love and life
only one pull away
from the white tunnel
and the darkness
near or far-off
she and I
into this
till the end
of our
days.