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.

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.

We sat untroubled
in the back yard
a warm dusk
the heat from the sun
radiating upward from
the cement patio
it felt so good
being with him
there - one on one
like a divine consultation
at the end of the day
father and son
but we couldn’t get past
the small things
he inhaled and swallowed
his bourbon on the rocks
washing away his fears
his hand waved
shouting, “hello!”
to the woman next door
then whispering under
his breath -
“you ******* - you,”
his twisted stare grabbed
me with his fire
I froze and deliberated
why he said things like this
at times like this
I couldn’t fix
such a gorgeous evening
that was damaged now
a ball of fire setting low
into the trees
he blamed the war
and grumbled
about his absent father
and his neglected childhood
so unforgiving and foul
puking his guts
on the neighbor and
the warm cement
goring anyone
who stepped into his range
I stared into the woods
while the screen door
squealed like a pig
abandoned on the square
avoiding the horns
of an angry bull.

these endless words
from worldly limbs  
breathe after
I die

hospice is the admission
they bring morphine
the good stuff
it’s six months or less
a one way flight
of hosts and guests
now numb from the blast
there’s no turning back
it’s inside out
and your hardwiring  
is resiliently engaged  
to move you forward
into this final encounter
day after day
drinking red tea
with spoons and cups
of Bonanno and Kubler-Ross  
their ghosts slurp
with you -
in your prepped room
your James Dean role
now flickers with light
on the ceiling
and you dream
a third stage bargain
that your son had been hit
instead of you
with this wicked sickness
then coolly counseled
by your wife
that it was no dream
just your mind  
regulating - processing
you slump there
dying there
in front of a familiar wall
where you once taped
painted olives green
and sipped scotch
with your books
at night.

you have your way
I have mine -
in the end

an exploited hand
threw a grenade
no pin -  
no spoon -
seconds seemed
like hours
in your mind
the steel growl
where mortals drift
above hollow ground
and out of the corner
of your sense
your lover’s destruction
flashed in the sand
the sins sprayed
all over the **** place
into their precious
eyes, blinding them
for a second -
then your offspring
waited and stared
into their cold
foiled TV dinners
quietly,
an empty table setting
and dust filled chair
clinked from the glass
spilling down
onto the carpet
then a muffled news
anchor whined
about crime
and revenues
in the background
with anxious
and forced discussion
“so….”
young eyes
became meaningless
under the glittering
shrapnel that flickered
across their screen
that night
like tinsel hanging
on the tree
and slits dripped
on soot red flesh
in this distant land
covered in sand
while little boys
and little girls
went about their
playful exchange
in this small
midwestern town
where everyone
thought they new
the score
behind the
door.

you reach for delight
in sour mash and shiraz
glassed up neat,
or with tight green leaves
that you lick sweet
on white paper,
in sparkling silver needles
that desire your blue pelt
and sweaty tempo runs
you reach –
for one helluva something
rather to shake you and
take you missing
from the throbbing pain
of stillness,
your fingers move firmly
downward on your
warm skintight thigh,
into a dark pleasurable
moist shadow,
beneath a sheer nylon bridge
where visceral odors rise
from your iris petal
textured juices confiscate
you - briefly
but joy can not be
stripped down
on any given sundown
you continue to search
for something,
for peace and delight
out there - the silence
always squints back
at the company
you keep.

behind our mask
are priceless celebrations
and faces we carry
from the past
they mean the world to us
besides who or what
has occurred they mold us
into who we are
shimmering images
with mouths and hair and eyes
that gaze back - pondering
we grasp and resuscitate
them over and over
in open tracks
where they float by
in slow moving trains
expressively staring  
with their hands and the side
of their face pressed against
the glass
uttering something
we pause to lift our head
to catch that special
glimpse again
of their beautiful
subdued expression
that fades away
into the distance
only to return cold still
at another time
and all we can do then
is look down at our hands
and notice the lines
that have become
more intense
each time
the train
goes by.

I watched the old
gray haired
*******
approach my fence
in the back yard
today,
he - looking up at the
beautiful work of art,
a brilliant Magnolia
that had just flowered
like a proud yawning
lioness at sunset,
his gilded tool
with it’s dangling rope
to hang a miracle
because it had spilled
into his yard
like pink paper leftovers
everywhere,
he decided to repress it
bordering the fence
it was annoying him
and his domain
Rousseau was dead-on
about my chained freedom
the manacles were dangling
and I could hear
him severing and slicing
her arms
it somehow made him
feel better
and he moaned
his wretched realm
on his side of the trellis
and he walked away
after the limbs had fallen
to the ground
to make his cheap ***
ground chuck on rye –
it smelled like ****
the amputated Magnolia
and grease spinning
around my head
I stood there, quietly
thinking how this was
so unwarranted
and what a waste of time
this was,
the tree crying out to me
and somewhere else on earth
another yawning
with laughter.

the Chicago headlines
this morning read:
thirty-two wounded
and nine dead,
my thoughts moved
slowly sinking
into my dark coffee
so simple and reassuring
me and my cup there,
for now –
then back to the
violent banner
of pulling triggers
on irrational and
divided spots
that burn out existence
with deadly power
settling the look of the other
existing and struggling
for status and spurred turf
and resources
in a hastily forceful system,
where chambered rounds
are shot from
cracked windows
like ordinary memos
by windy city herds
that graze on concrete
and charge with their swords
held high in waxed cutlasses
while the mountain cloud
and blue sky turns
pale in response
rains ultimately come
to wash the chalk
and blood away
from the open pastures
the audience hesitating
with indifference
holding their
little crosses
waiting…waiting,
and nothing
to be done.

by: W. A. Marshall

I can not speak
for or about
others,
their conditions  
their faults
their ambitions,
for myself  
I sit -
with my mediocrity,
shining and whining
through my impulsive
forest
minds labor in
unison
and this landscape
stays
the same.

by: W. A. Marshall

tight juicy yumness
this crack huge
game’s on point
you had me at that bass
**** homie,
u r too good wit it
run the sick trap
my dude doin work
loving the awesome switch
so paralyzed make love
nicee smooth as buttah
you went in dreamy
way too dope
swoop feels mane
nice flip
caught up on point
my dawg’s cramming
dem hats smoove
fresh cream zonin
fire float’n like puddin
my dude always killin
way too good sir
bro so sophisticated
**** can’t get enough
stunning blend
dope ******* sick
turnt up atmosphere
in that ending tho

I sat in an obscure local library
for a second it reminded me
of an assisted living facility
a kind of base camp
I counted them – six distinctly
those senior men with battle scars
and sun spots that were earned
on family trips now forgotten
each had a story and a long life  
almost gone now they sat quietly
inside their gray hollow heads
a few had discolored Goodwill hats
that nobody else wanted
cheap and tired looking
slurping up the papers news
three inches from their **** face,
they were clotted blue
while the chapel asylum
and town monument
across the street beheld us
there under the same beautiful sky
my green and brown bivouac
suddenly raged about my own
circular inventory
that will come
like theirs when what is left
of my forest is no different than
anyone else.

I often misjudge the distance
between me and the world,

this morning the distance
was more like looking
through a keyhole
and seeing the
arrows wreckage,

a woman was walking
in front of me at the
university union
where oversized portraits
of past torchbearers and
victors hang grandiosely
on neat corn rows
like kings and queens
with branded jewels
we watched her fire storm
together - just me and the group,

she came through the peaceful
passageway that normally
reminds me of a quiet library
but not this time,
her pace quickened as she
disputed her case brashly
to her lover on her cell,
something about being seen
somewhere with someone  
so furious and unbending
and persuasive, out there
in a swirl, and I thought,
“****, why?” such chaos
and anger over an
appearance, over an
inquiry - over a nothing,
there was no autopsy
but she rambled onward
stomping her black spiny
pumps loudly on the marble
creating a demanding rap
it couldn’t wait
tossing her hair back violently
as if it were on fire
she stunk up the joint
with her, “no time for that,”
front,

the distance between me
and the world grew smaller
this morning,
I stopped to look at it
at her retching, it wasn’t
a fire and I did not
misread this,
what I felt there peering
through the key hole
tenderly reminded me
of my own adultery
with absent mindedness
and irrational fear
and messes that protest,
else they lay down under
lily-livered puppet strings
and bed springs.

I say too much
or not enough
it annoys them
the troubled ones,
but - their ego
doesn’t alter
the truth
behind
the moon.

“A young man is afraid of his demon and puts his hand
over the demon's mouth sometimes.” (D. H. Lawrence).

Your planned questions and critical tight passions, under scrutiny, always under assessment. Even the small things were tough. Am I approximately accurate or am I dreaming. Proceeding as though you needed you. And his little head somewhere down inside. You and your ushers stood by the table. You brought me in before our eyes locked smirking behind our enraged knuckles. You were born into a void scraping on the attack. It kept you awake and your hair in place. Your attempts to comb it brush it and straighten your scarf.  Your demon born, hungry, wanting to spoil your declarations. Conciliated with vapor, your wing tipped vanity and fresh uptown start in this new land. Transparent emerald lanterns illuminating this new name like a sparkling mirage in the desert, a small crossroad. Ornamenting your booth with pieces of paper calculations suddenly haunting you in time. Trying to look useful, you advise me. How pathetic. Go on, read your newspaper where those rotting black bananas sit.  Regard for those cunning visits and discussions about your performance, not about my reality. They might grind you into sausage unless you produce something substantial and who really gives a ****? Your vision is obviously obscured. Darkness peers in on you intermittently through the window of distant island wars. Useless absconders along disordered paths. Forgotten forever in the ****** sand. Telling your stories to those who would listen. Yes I remember then. Children could care less, not having the capacity to understand such troubled parts. Again and again, requiring close attention but you kept moving saying it out loud. Iced down bourbon mingled in the kitchen. I remember that sound, the ice tossed into the sink as you peered and swallowed your nightly dose. I notice this (again) when I smell my own prescription.  Without knowing or saying you kept them and extracted their records on the evening hour. Superior dwellings and new cars were additionally central to you. Bi-monthly figures stirred in your cherry pits. You never know where one’s head is going with all this. My reaction cuts like a scalpel below the fleshy surface, holding you up to the light like paper Mache. You stuck a shard of glass deep into my mind. Presuming a forged response would finally show, but it is not so interesting. You wanted perfection so that footsteps would quicken your ladder. A light then came on quickly, breaching the room as you lay there gasping from my phone call. You did not recognize who I was and I was twice alone.

Each morning
you are offered
another chance to
get it true
your days are administered
but nothing fixed
only a fundamental
entry on the obits
you notice how subtle
you hang there
balancing your self
lately on the *****
observing the fresh
young smokers
that ignore speed limits
on their world-shattering
road and you smile
at the young birdie
near your feet
peering up at you
from the puddle
that fails to notice
any of this

it struck me  
the people that expend
huge amounts of time
and energy,
trying to avoid the margins
and gold dandelions,

I no longer wanted
to be interesting.

what’s the use?
they deem their law
of judgment and faith
remarkable, as mass media
accelerates the blister,
dues that don’t square
with reality’s boundary
so they sit quietly
the silent ones;
behind hardened glass
anxious, puffed up and erroneous,
in a state of confinement,
afraid to say, “how the hell should I know?”
the rat herds lick their greasy feet,
while avoiding margins
out there, the cost of return
for what opinions farm
twist and squeeze a thoughtful minority
and keeps it in line
until one day - their world
is gone

it is either/or
spiritual or material,
sophisticated cultural compliance
or young blind revolution,
those are the lenses however;
somewhere in the middling
an abandoned idiot pawns both understandings
with such stark irresponsibility
consciously acknowledging (all) his blunders
greeting good and evil, shadow and light
and those around him laugh and snitch
behind their masked pillar
because his way, his reality
is much different from theirs,
his position rescinds all human meaning
not as tender he seems, he is perhaps closest
to the borderline
a poised vision - a place where
no divisions exist,
of what is transferrable and true
the other side of wilderness.

by William A. Marshall

go ahead, it’s your story
it’s an extrapolation and
you’ve got the (tile) floor  
for certain genera who listen
throw it up -
all over the **** place
in a documented assembly
or novel ode
your feelings hurl from the past
from petite chestnut corners
of your skull
rinsing the snow-white clips
and pages once innocent and fresh
now blotched up
in your porcelain sink  
half digested commitments
mixed in a wicked soup
that flows downward, slowly
plunged in there - to the wrist
you did it to yourself,
doggedly unsettled  
because it’s exclusive to you
to you and your mirror that talks
chunks of desire floating
in your opinion
how the hell do I know?
well, I’ve seen your sketchy
inactive pipeline up close
I’ve been clogged there too
and recall your lips stirring
but now I observe your smoking
sewer grill from the path
while fumes burn and hurl
from your
****

by: William A. Marshall

at the age of five we are sent off
into unknown structures with flinty rooms
with kids with bad breath who smell
like their dog
and like to clown and chuck things.
we eventually lose our patent uniqueness,
within the system, its rules, and policies
that are designed to govern
and strip us plain.
the system itself could care less,
“don’t think just memorize the information kid.”
our uniqueness wilts
with each passing packet of school pictures,
clothing and status become essential
for neophytes  
the offices stink
like after shave and cheap perfume in first period
each one gets a taste of honey
then the knife.
they look at their job like some kind of victory,
and their marriage
and their kids,
their lousy vinyl sided house
with the manicured lawn
like a victory to their family,
and to the world.
no one cares,
not the homeless guy in the street
not the neighbors with their friendly act,
or the precinct chairwoman asking you
if you voted as she reads your name
from her covert list,
all the victories lose their sweetness
and eventually you are stealing a few grapes
like a **** starving addict
at the supermarket
with your sore knee and shaded goggles
the victories are no longer important
and you limp to your vehicle
pushing your rusty cart,
full of soup and ***** by yourself
not remembering where you parked
the same way you came into this joint,
helpless and irritable as hell
needing something
or someone
to help you find
your identity that was taken
long ago by society,
it’s the order of things.

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.