Disconnected linguistics leave a broken fragility
turning tongues tumbling to trite truths,
tales spun seeking refuge in imagined worlds,
realities left shattered in their wake
while the crumbling crust reveals
heart held, beating in its embrace.
Thoughts turned towards musing,
secondary perception detecting that creeping chill
sliding as ivy from toes
to engrossed mind constricted,
comprehension continuously catching
the cold of ancient rites,
a reoccurence of yesterdays',
it echoes on in such melodic disorder.

With sweet venom she sang my way,
understanding aural shortcomings
allots no egress of racing choruses
coordinated to keep pace on her tongue,
lacing time so delicately, a feat
of only passionate disdain
tastefully recounted in every syllable
crashing in with a vicious viscosity,
leaving life to buckling knees,
forcing haggard steps
while the mind abstains from physical obfuscation,
knowing contact lends focus
to the surrounding mists, draining away

these rains you called, in echoes
of cries once denied
harmonies gaining pitch in perfect paces
found once allowed to resound
in the dark halls of your eyes,
until tomorrow fell to
yesterday's reign of essence,
breaking escaping waters to essentials
encircling columns we've yet
to deem pedestals.

It is in your service
that's found purpose,
an audition of caution
refined to presence,
I step into those commons
you still hold.

In nightshade and baby's breath
your song still emanates,
guiding through corridors
while the ceiling fills with
observant eyes of those predating sorrow,
unwilling to be its end,
or allow a Freudian slip
in which to reveal
a true identity,
they hold our hope
just within reach
though grasping fingers do naught
but brush aside that shadow
cast overhead, if only for the moment.

In this maze I am flanked
by hedges of stone,
mortar,
a mixture of
one part water
to every action
allowed to cement itself
in habit.
Reformative shifts scaling
to emerge a new horizon,
walls become signposts
as you echo inwards,
or up,
directive differences
falling to disorientation
either is understood
your path.

Catching firefly notes,
we've lined our world
in an unaccustomed passion,
all requiem and maladroit,
It was ours.
In the center,

our masks sufficed,
not having the time
to trade selves after
skirting two terrains of lucidity,
this reflective core the only stage
for our melting embrace,
idyll frivolity now perceived reality
in which falling apart proves
a simple concepts,

it's marked, our time now conceding
to the allure of situational  gravity,
spiraling downwards is the start of
constant uphill struggles,
crawling when called upon,
yet refusing to take knees
to provisional tears,
and finding conceding timeline tears
commonality.

For now though
we'll sit beneath this eldar tree,
sinking to material dissociation,
as the wish of a lover's kiss
washes upon us,
left surfacing somewhere past
these leaves of fall
in time to release
the seas of change.

And as waves pervade
she wraps her palm 'round mine,
whispers collecting in tense tendons,
sketch a note between innocence's evidence
and dust's barefoot impressions.
Signed in years marking its begin,
we addressed it
to any that may return.

I

To-night, a first movement, a pulse,
As if the rain in bogland gathered head
To slip and flood: a bog-burst,
A **** breaking open the ferny bed.
Your back is a firm line of eastern coast
And arms and legs are thrown
Beyond your gradual hills. I caress
The heaving province where our past has grown.
I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder
That you would neither cajole nor ignore.
Conquest is a lie. I grow older
Conceding your half-independent shore
Within whose borders now my legacy
Culminates inexorably.

II

And I am still imperially
Male, leaving you with pain,
The rending process in the colony,
The battering ram, the boom burst from within.
The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column
Whose stance is growing unilateral.
His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum
Mustering force. His parasitical
And ignorant little fists already
Beat at your borders and I know they're cocked
At me across the water. No treaty
I foresee will salve completely your tracked
And stretchmarked body, the big pain
That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again

Night flower blossoming
Beneath the summer sky
Petal parasols unfurling
Throughout June and July

She was born under the moon
Nocturnal butterfly
Pollinated by pale moths
To live one day then die

Moonflower blooms in warmth
Her short season’s end nigh
Shriveling once the frost sets in
And conceding to the ice

Moonblossom rich in scent
A true pleasure to stand by
Her short-lived sweet fragrance
Would all surely vivify

There is a love, deeply embedded  into

fear's reverence.. and what we fear most,
is the threat of annihilation..  yet,  is not
that, which is within the deep hooks  of
annihilation's looming leer, that which
is also the very seeds sown-- giving way
to the very firstfruits of Life-Anew..
within itself?

So then, is not death's very fear,  
in itself,  a conceding to the inevitability
of Love's unfolding conquer?
The condemnation-shadow, so unfairly
placed into you,  at such a tender
young age, has run amok for so many
unrestrained years  within your beautiful
spirit, and body..  is no longer
    an end-all..
    or catch-all,
But is now, but a spring-board;   albeit,
fear-driven.. into that (finally, Beautiful-one)
which brings Life.. directly out of death--
Not with the annihilation  of the very  Death..
(which gave you Magic) but through its own,
very power to draw us towards Love,
through its own, very fear (respect)  of that Love..
does not then, death.. through Love,  become upheld?

So how then can the condemnation within you, be bad
except that it be allowed to,  for life.. keep you
hidden in shadow? Is not then  Love's Light, the
very thing that creates Shadow's, shadow, therefore
exposing Shadow's nature by bringing forth,
its own shadow..  leaving the vulnerable rawness of
condemnation, exposed..
Hence, the horrendous sting of Love's truth.. yet also,
through the Faith-increasing training of experience  alone,
is the strengthening into resilience  the beautiful, war-torn
Spirit  that has become able to begin  to finally.. take in, Love.
This is where you are now at, beautiful girl. While under
condemnation's death-hold, you have hated me for so long
that the love.. mixed with fear.. became its own  natural
concession into Life, itself-- giving way to the Magical
falling-off  of the scales that have covered those beautiful
eyes of yours for so long

Bring your Death, beautiful-one. Through your Faith,  it is
established..  and then made, Complete. The giftedness, borne
from the deep, catacombs of Death's Unholy Hold, come forth
in fullness.. into fruition.. as you pass from Death, into Life--
right here.. in the land of the Living.
The Death you have known, does not fall off at the gate
as you pass through it.. but instead, through the newness
of your beautiful eye's, Life View..  Death's previous Unholiness
  becomes instantly, Holy.

I am in love with the death that is in you. From its hold,
were born every Magical gift that I love so much, in you..
and  while in your presence..  will forever
take my breath away.

Welcome to my life, Beautiful one.

Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm

I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover

There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain

And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat

And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas

Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best

coffee stain memories (an aging love)

our dozen or so mugs,
all white, her color of choice,
accumulating stains of black-brown coffee
that the dishwasher poetically concedes,
a decade plus of drinking, now, oh-now,
****** and can’t be removed

the lips of some are chipped,
the lips of some are chapped,
but they remain employed
for first coffee is a demonstrable
affectation of affection that losing
would be costly

but one of us soto voce, quietly whispers
the radical ionized idea,
shouldn’t we replace,
this should-not is an update, a cognition of
a bridge too far,
both agreeing, both conceding the symbolism,
the heart acknowledges a momentary thrombosis,
for the losing turnover is a winless loss
messaging in and about,
an aging staining love losing

~
A no ki tov tuesday poem

Up on a feathered duvet a man conceding defeat
To the Sunday that had just begun
Reeking of last night’s sweat, smoke and self-deceit
Threads of reality so rapidly un-spun

All that he promised himself to accomplish this day
All that stuff to be tossed in the bin
Procrastination rearranges plans or lets them decay
And all because of his love for gin

Amnesia of last night’s antics plants the seeds of guilt
Shame shall be his shadow today
Enter a recurring thought... a sword driven to its hilt
Piercing pain added to his dismay

Rusted cogs of cognition screeched slowly into action
"A cure" he grumbled "A cure"
Wearily off the bed searching for medicinal satisfaction
To make last night less obscure

The stark bright light of the bathroom fried his vision
But as his senses normalized
He stared in the mirror shocked, BANG! In a collision
Mouth agape and paralyzed

Finger painted on his forehead, with what must be blood
G    U    I    L    T   Y
From down stairs somewhere
A woman's laugh
Mocking
Fear took its grip quick

A sword driven to its hilt



Part 2 of 6
a sword driven to its hilt

Arctic chills froze his spine
Pick axes hacked his mind
Tongue pickled in brine
Suffocated and confined
Heart beat pounding
Breathing short and quick
Terror was abounding
Throat swallowing a brick

Staring at his reflection . . . G U I L T Y
Unable move any limb
Even for his protection
Return of memory grim . . . a sword driven to its hilt

Back to the bed room to search for his phone
To make contact with the real world
From down stairs came that exact same laugh
Every hair on his body tightly curled
The phone was nowhere to be found upstairs
Again that tormenting laughter
He called out "Who is it?" but only silence replied
Then that laugh again soon after
"WHO ARE YOU?!" he demanded to know
Arming himself with a cricket bat
Tentatively descending the sweeping staircase
Noticing the post on the door mat
The newspaper informed him it was Monday
Confused, frightened he ran outside
A burnt pile of his clothes lay in front of his door
He yelled but only the laughter replied

Then through the dining room bay-window
Sitting at the table as if a patient guest
A gruesome wide eyed greying corpse of a man  
A sword driven in his head and out his breast

In the dead man’s hand a glowing phone
The source of the tormenting laugh
Not thinking, our man rushed in to take it
The phone flashed "maintenance staff"

Every sense heightened
Sickened and frightened
Feeling he was being observed
Part of a wicked game
Driving him insane
But so far he had been preserved
As he answered the phone
He knew he was not alone
"Hello sir... I hope I haven't disturbed"
------------------------------------------------------­-----------

part 3 of 6

Saturday Night

The late afternoon sun draped its golden satin light
To the house-staff, Giles (our man) seemed uptight
The butler Zamira dutifully stirring his drink right

The sun dipped behind the poplar trees standing straight
He orders "A Churchill  martini" trying not to sound irate
Giles watched her stirring, stirring as in a hypnotic state

Zamira presented a chilled, frosted Riedel martini glass to him
brimming to the top with Gilpins Westmorland extra dry gin
The sun slowly sank behind trees as the drink loosened his limbs
"You may both leave, till Tuesday" He said to Zamira and her twin
Liliana (the cook) and the butler were often dismissed at his whim
They sped off in their green MG, off to the Slaughtered lamb inn

Giles raised his glass to the bobbing full hunters moon
Waiting was now over, the others would be here soon
First a pinch of Peruvian sniffed from a little silver spoon

This day had been prepared in detail for nearly a year
One final act of courage and tenacity he must engineer
All hushed except the sound of large cars drawing near

Four black Jaguars and a white refrigerated van

Crunched over the gravel drive towards (our man)

Giles Bradshaw-Behran stood still.

It had began.

---------------------------------------------------------­--

Part 4 of 6

three years earlier

The Gallows and Noose

"This, THIS! I'm so tired of all THIS!"
Blurted Giles as Zamira dressed his wrists
Pathetic! (She thought) A dismal attempt
Then left the room concealing contempt
Giles just stared at the

drip

drip

drip

dripping of the morphine
Candle light danced on the walls
The demons sank back into the shadows
Giles returned to the womb
Basking in weightless warmth
Comfortably apathetic
Numb

The drudgery of the next day unfurled
As Giles accepted defeat around noon
Something had to be done about life
That something had better happen soon
  
He brunched in his office
and so began his search
All that day
and night
that week
That month

Deeper into the cavernous "dark web"
seeking any answer to end his despair
but every search became a cul-de-sac
No doors opened for this millionaire
No doors would open
All remained firmly locked
Sitting in his office chair
Feverishly typing as he rocked
He rocked as he typed
He swivelled as he clicked
Searching for something
That he was less able to predict

But that something found him
And sent him an invitation
Explaining that they had been watching
Seeing his frustration
Understanding his world view
May he could understand theirs
But before he were to be accepted
He must climb down the seven stairs
He
      Must
                Climb
                           Down
                                     The
                                           Seven
                                                      Stairs
Dis­tant from the blinding light
Cast yourself from the hallows
Embrace darkness embrace night
Take the Noose and the Gallows.

The mouse pointer hovered
over options "Yes" and "No"
His heart beat quickened
But then came the red glow
of two laser beams from directly behind
circling the yes option
From past the windows' opened blind
"Yes" and the two red dots disappeared
The wheels were put in motion
His future was now commandeered
A force that seemed greater than him
Changed the rules and took control
Embers deep inside of him flickered
Re-igniting the coals of his dark soul

The seven steps awaited him...
What ever could they be?


-----------------------------------------------------------­


part 5 of 6

The Seven Steps of The Thuggee

Giles sat statue still in his office
Unsure whether or not he should move
Like a hunted deer in the woods
Waiting for chances of survival to improve

And yet though he were vulnerable
Life coursed through every artery and vein
The lost keystone of his arched spirit
The panacea for tedious boredom and pain

DING! ****! The doorbell rang
"Zamira, who is it? Can you please see?"
Footsteps approached the front entrance
Giles felt instinctively "fight or flee"

He sat with silence looming over him
For what seemed like an eternity
"****** ancient bell!" he shouted
"This whole house repels modernity!"

Down stairs
At the entrance
The Cuban butler stared out into the night
Looking for a sign
Looking for who...
Who had left the parcel she now clutched tight

No one
Nothing
But for the song of a lonely nightingale
She hurried
To the office
Where she found her employer looking pale

Zamira explained what had happened
And handed him the black wrapped box
"Would you like me to open it Sir?"
"No! I would like... a chartreuse on the rocks"

She left to attend to his request

For the attention of Mr. G. Bradshaw-Behram
Soon after the two laser beams were on the wrapping
Inside the box was a detailed program
A history of the Thuggee cult and a Thuggee king

The Thuggee King called BEHRAM!
Behram, BEHRAM! His late mother’s family name
A Thuggee cult King relative?
With over 900 hundred murders to that man’s claim

900 strangled victims
To please Goddess Kali
Every drop of blood for her
So humanity can be free

Zamira returned with his drink
Giles had never needed one so much
The following weeks more instruction came

Weeks just turned to months
Months quickly turned to years
Six of the secret steps complete
So many grotesque souvenirs

All leading to this moment
On his lawn under the hunters moon
The waiting was now over
The others would be here very soon
First a pinch of Peruvian
Sniffed from his pretty little silver spoon
Adjusting his cummerbund
That soon would erase two souls fortune

Four black Jaguars and a refrigerated van
Crunched over the gravel drive to our man
Giles stood still and smiled, for it had began

Each of the six women and the six men
Were concealed with hoods and veils
But Giles' face was not hidden from them
Now that he controls the final inhales

Deep in the candle light of the wine cellar
Which had been prepared with plastic sheets and tape
A skirt of dismembered arms on an altar
A grim garland of forty eight human skulls, mouths agape

But fifty skulls are required
According to the ancient text
Two more to soon be provided
Giles planned to do that next

"Bring the two travellers to me" demanded Giles
"Let me send them on their final way"
Eight of the group left and within minutes returned
With four bound, hooded for him to slay.

Giles felt suddenly unable to function
"This was not meant to be!"
"The others witnessed the abduction, Sir"
"They...will not please Kali"

"Stand those women over there
Tie them back to back
Make sure your knots are fixed
Offer them no slack!"

The silk cummerbund slid
Effortlessly off his waist
Weighted near the middle
To offer death less haste
The first of the male offerings
Only kicked for 30 seconds
the world stopped moving when
the other felt the silk band

The back to back females started spinning
Their hoods removed and ******* gone
Giles did not look up to see who he knew
Focused solely on continuing strangulation

This time the Thuggee's had another view
Zamira and Liliana in a blurring spin
Black of space and ocean of deep blue
Zamira angered, Liliana peaceful grin

All but their arms becoming one
Morphing seamlessly into each other
The (previously twin) sisters had become
The universe's all powerful mother

          K A L I...


Final part

Nothing escapes the all-consuming march of time!

As KALI consumed time and space
Her dimensions grew and grew
Her skin darkened to deep space black
From unfathomable ocean blue
Rivers of obsidian flowed as her wild hair
Untamed, magnificent, streaming
Three blood red eyes past, present, future
Decided who needed redeeming
Four arms, three of which were grasping
A sword, a spear, a bowl
The fourth grabbed a Thuggee's head
Sword decapitated the soul
A crimson red snake of a tongue lashed
Out for every drop of blood
Then the sword slashed every throat there
Her tongue lapped up the flood
KALI'S gaze finally cast upon terrified Giles
Evaporating his body with fire
His conscience was that remained in that dimension
His conscience changed KALI'S desire
Frightful fury morphed in to motherly compassion
Her skin back from black to blue
Spewing out rearranged history, time and space
No other being could construe
But a mother must teach her children lessons
So she left Giles not without guilt
A ****** message painted on his forehead
And a sword driven to its hilt

*THE END!

I am not testifying my emotion with the poetry, I am
atoning to it.
I write about God like a friend but we
Haven't been speaking.  
I confess my sins to
Whoever will play the part.
When I write about how quiet the moon has been,
I am saying I'm sorry.

My lack of honesty is writers-block.
I crave all of the hurt. I
Torture myself into unhappiness.
I have this habit of starting things I don't
Finish and they're usually letters
Bursting with nameless blame.
I shut down in the middle of
My emotions because they are too loud, I substitute
all of my connections for a painless quiet.
I am cold because it is easier than being warm,
Than getting burned, than being honest. I am cold
because it is easier than saying that
I am selfish in love. I drain, consume
devour everything that touches me and I
Don't know how to stop taking.

When I write about how I am scared that
Love and violence sound the same from an empty bed, I am saying I'm sorry.
I am not presenting my pain with the poetry,
I am conceding to it.
I can't take a pen to paper without punishing myself with the ink.

When I write about a fence with vines encasing the wood,
About neglect, about a garden full of overgrown weeds and
A cold house, I am saying
Forgive me.

It may be demons you're fighting,
But it's angels dying.
And people like me caught in-between.

Good intentions you're laying,
But the path you are paving?
Not sure if it leads where you think.

And I 'm not saying you're wrong.
I'm not claiming I'm right.
Not conceding that there's one or the other.

I just want you to wait,
Halt your raging crusade,
Before one thing leads to another.

So caught up in the ends
That you forgo twists and bends,
And turn a blind eye to the means.

You have something to prove,
But much more to lose.
There is time: you're still green.

And while there are battles worth picking,
And wars worth pursuing,
How you fight matters just as much as who wins.

So just take a breath,
And take stock of what's left,
Before you can't turn back because you're too far in.

Love.

It's such an easy word to scoff at.
We are born with our parents
nursing us on it.
With promises of never letting
that well run dry.
We live the rest of our lives
dedicated to finding that love in another person.
To discover that true, pure chemistry with someone.

As much as I hate to admit it
I want all of this and more.
I'm only human.
I just can't break out of this cage.
A cage built on a foundation of
ignorance, Jesus, loneliness, and hate.

That must be what a tiger feels like.
Living everyday enclosed by thick glass walls
watching everyone else live the life you want.
To be able to walk outside
with my fingers interlocked with the person I care about most
Without being stared at
Without being told it's unhealthy
Without having bibles thrown at us.

I'd ask my parents to make me free
But they'd just swallow the key
So I'd stay in there forever.
Because letting me breathe the outside air
would be conceding to what their upbringings told them.
It would be admitting that their baby boy is abnormal.

Somehow they didn't get me the memo
that I can't share my love the same way the normal people can.
That I'll never be able to feel the soft skin of my own child
or be able to hang a piece of paper on my wall
announcing my promise to keep my love forever.

You know, it's not like
I ever wanted to be in here.
I didn't choose to be trapped.
I didn't choose to have my life criticized and nitpicked.
I didn't choose to feel like a pariah.
If there was any choice involved
It certainly wouldn't be this.

I spend my life screaming
and pounding the glass
hoping people hear me but
really wanting to hit hard enough
to shatter some of the glass
and let the shards meet my skin
so I can feel something other than
guilt
shame
and embarrassment.

For now, I just stand hear
Wishing, hoping, needing
Someone to see me.
Someone to hear me.
Someone to find a key
And free me.

for mine own Yocum*

<>




a strange parting shot,
that we are are the refuse
upon this island Earth,
the very last item on some being's
weekly grocery list,
a list composed 'illions of years ago,
of things that could be worthy of
"creating"

this thought sticks to my soul,
like a rosé pink colored
NYC street'd, well chewed,
gum piece
adheres to my sole

the musical companion to this ecrivez,
a sinfonia for strings politely begs to differ,
while a hard covered book
dances me over to Texas,
Dudamel conducts Barber,
all making the question of
man as an afterthought
in a divine master plan for a planet,
seems almost recklessly absurdly nonsensical


then

my cell buzzes me back to this

******* hell earth

seven more cops shot, three dead

down in the bayou of Baton Rouge,
on a sabbath Sunday morning

rouge red now assumes,
takes on a different
notation colorations,
to my bleeding eyes,
delivering importations
of  headaches confusion rampage,
red rage

the amplification of the worst of we,
afterthought creatures surely,
why "create a destroyer,"
an absurd contradictory term,
so we are gift wrapped  
beneath the misleading approbation -
human

there is no nobility in our savagery,
or dare I sneer and say,
in our humanity

you cannot seal a wound with music

you cannot revive the dead with a poem ear-whispered

sitting beneath the tree shade
of my privileged place,
my surrounding world is
bay blue and grass green,
my vision myopic,
I am a self-centered,
microscopic collection of red cells

conceding to you Sargeant,
this designer of the human form,
who wrought it from
soiled earth and excess rib bone,
had a peculiar sense of humor,
a comedian full of
malice aforethought,

for are we not
the final joke,
for someone's bemusement

we must have come last,
because you always
want to leave them
laughing

When all the world’s ablaze
I will hold you loosely
Loosen our tenure
Of life in qualm
In daze
Of longing
Of something better

Feel.

However pale with every yawning
Know that you are freeing
See that you are slipping
Distant
Within my reach
Finally conceding
All of life lived being
All of tumultuous jeering

parse and praise the phrase,
checkerboard fraction,
appréhendé immédiatement,
a poem title!
put aside to marinate,
stamped "will not expire,"
doing the research legwork,
**** it is a real thing!

toujours,
where the best words and titles come from,
if one listens well
romantic notions swell the chest,
all the love affairs over so many decades,
all checkerboard games
with Kings a-crowning and Queens a-moaning,
poet, no way, never planned ahead,
always lost by a fractious split,
more than a fractional loss,
losing
most triumphantly!

each lover took and left a fraction behind,
a numerator, a denominator, never a whole number,
for then there would be no poetry need

you want,
have need for
une idée fixe
whom I should be, but i could be a
multiple choice answer
a three scoop ice cream treat,
or perhaps, a mix of forty favorered flavors
a new one,
chaque coup,
why not?

our first disagreement
both of us wish to nominate the other to be the nominator

the denominator is a definition of what is the whole
because i am gracious,
foolish and less than whole
already
I concede cause I am in already in retreat,
conceding comes supernaturally nowadays,
so move me forward on the checkerboard
and triple jump me, and any way
I am pas de nom
we close today with an American
yay...

Naive is the poet
who thinks what he's written
will capture her heart
with his melodic song

Yes, he was once good
but it all dissipated
when someone much better
just happened along

Now he cries in the shadows,
his pen falling empty,
conceding defeat
to another so new

While all of his dreams
have been left in a poem,
wishes in verses
that will not come true

In my head again
fighting a battle
I know I can't win.

Shut down or stand up,
never good enough.
Insecurities.

Conceding no more,
hesitation gone,
I've settled the score.

Look in the mirror,
dismiss my disguise.
Fierce and Strong I rise.

The last star, now corporate logo.

You're my spoilt demand of love.

The hitch-hiker is buried at home.

Weight on the mattress, no more.

Conceding to smoke in my lungs.

Beheaded treetops, and a poisoned sky.

The lighthouse blinks - oh blessed recovery!

The last human uploads his consciousness.

The cancer spread to bone marrow.

Thousand lensed eye, yet no identity.

He plays the last ever chord.

Sequel: And she dances to his echoes.

With no land left, only sea.

Third eye opened – to New Eden!

The unbelievable new fathoms of physics.

With wonder, she first saw Earth.

Heavy black clouds
darken the entire sky
an imposing dictator
now rules the horizons

pertinent
petulant
grinning
seditious clouds
mercilessly grinding
devouring
cotton candy clouds
silky satin clouds.
Bright heady clouds
now smothered, abused
all conceding
they themselves are
now transformed
en bloc!
oh great one
allow me to intercede
so all bow low below
Allow me to bellow
Wasteful wistful wisps
Of white fluffy bits into –
A war cloud!
One that gets respect
A heavy dark full-bloodied cloud
Into a real cloud
A cloud to die for
So gallant brave foot soldiers
beat the war drums with
whittled willow sticks
thunder-bolt strikes  that
invoke the terrain spirits
alert the earth sprites
enlighten all mankind
so sombre September skies may
weep woefully
for all the living,
the departed, too.
.
lightning strikes
faces flash-overed
frying
flesh fresh
weeping
unpeeling crawling
exposing
feeble fibia bones
splendid rip raw effect
lightning sheets that reflect
vivid vibrant violence
inflicted on hapless victims.
Therefore ... I propose
simply do not court disaster
Serve but one Lord and Master
Oh menial lowly caste civil clouds
Pay homage to your Ruler
Recognize and realize –
CUMULONIMBUS!

The red orange sky
Turns to purple glass
The sun recedes
And the light does pass

Far away and beyond
The curve of the Earth
Conceding to the stars
Their nightly worth

Yet the moon is absent
Unseen on high
Missing from orbit
In the great night sky

And it has been for ages
On this long since strange world
Where once it was near
Now to the void has been hurled

Where it drifts unaware
In thoughtless still dreams
Biding infinite time  
While it happily beams

For a few or great many
In distant aeons to come
Will bask in the light
That it stole from all suns

Each year, we arrive at the same knot of woods, having drawn the same straw.
We grasp, trembling, at what we imagine to be certain death:
A leaf, edges curved up, orange crudely splashed across green.

But would you spare a second thought for the falling leaf that subsumes your life?
Think. Why would the world continuously dash herself
Into pieces, render herself to ash, if she were not made of
Such stuff as phoenixes? Nature goes up into flames each year
With little to no ado, and heals herself without fuss.

Leaves throw themselves from great heights not in pursuit of ruination but of
Revival. Year after year after year we are asked this much:
Allow me to unfurl the fist with which you are clinging to this tree.
Comfort lies in confiding, confessing, and conceding. There is no need to be
Stronger than the Earth’s heart when she is offering it up
To you so singularly. Grant yourself this: that she wants you to
      Smile and shine and grow.

Do you fear your fate in this moment? You misinterpret.
The blameful breeze you imagine you feel is, in actuality,
Earth’s unremitting whisper, pressed into your skin:
“Do as the leaves do. Follow, and fall. You are forgiven.”