I wait for the winter like a wind-up bird, chattering its chipped porcelain wing—the music box croaks on for my finger still trembling, an intermittent sweet note gliding away like a fugitive tear. I crane my neck in vain against the days growing shorter, the nights deceptively embryonic—I swim in them. Eventually the water and I become one languid body, a vinaigrette left to sweat, a sad salad. We do alright, we do with the flies. One wing tip-dipped inward, this one never thought he’d come too close, that one never thought, head fully submerged in a bowl of subtle acid soup.

And then the ladle-eclipse, its gorge swooping beneath me, engulfing me in its inverted belly, my limbs gangly-dangling like lifeless antennae. Soon I am spooned onto a saucer and served to the Universe’s most pretentious dinner guests. Old Man Winter is the first to **** his pongs about my tender torso, and I am reminded of last season’s stinging and stabbing, though I manage to escape unscathed, however canned and stored in the crowded freezer. There I forget the Sun. I forget how to liberate my emotion, how energy can become a circuit of temperament. I am released when the Old Man retreats. I remember the post-circuit-breaking fear of being thought crazy, of the accuracy of those perceptions. I re-experience the cackling pleasure of moving against the grain. I learn how to harness and channel high frequency vibrations.

Flattened and sealed in the sardine can I healed. I grew in the dead of winter, I grew even when the goblin would meet my gaze in the mirror. I hear the ticking of the bird but now only in my left ear. I peer into the future and watch the bird fly away.

What is this poison,
that dims hope like light in a room,
caked with cigarette smoke?

The sour bath of sins
that spoils the fertility of our souls,
like the black sap,
clogging the crimson holes in our conscience.

What is this medication
that murmurs obediently in the tunnels
of your flesh like a blind fly trapped in an hourglass?

The thick soup that sinks the dredged
pulse of life as it croaks and awakens in
hesitation
for the next perpetual dawn.

A sign tacked like an eviction notice in the skulls
of your dreams, telling them:
“I’m sorry Sir, but for this magnitude of pain,
there is no cure.”

And still like an earthquake, death
trembles at your fingertips like an
old, worn man— asking, perpetually,
“When’s the next train to Calgary?”

I have not the guts to tell him
the smoke has held me
captive
all this time.

*2011

The powerless gods
Whose names I have not counted worthy of remembrance
March like high school bullies
Neither I nor they
Understand the reason for their swagger
Some dumb determination to enlighten me, may be?
A cause, a campaign
A small favor
Willingly performed for the Conjurer

Who steals from the Dream World
Who makes enemies in the Real World
Because he will not share his loot
He labels and tags and stores the treasure
Describes it all to anyone with ears to hear
Quite eloquently
With an air of pomp and mystery

Listen. He brags that his coffers are full
So much more than he needs
So much more than he wants
Still he hoards

He's convinced the dogs
That he has more to give them
Than flowery words
(As words he worships)
They believe him
Though it was not his intent to convert
As it is not his intent to keep his word
So more fool them
They look like bunglers, trolls, monsters
Rounded up into a posse
I would laugh at them if not for the fact
That I'm the one they are coming for

Before the next five minutes are over
They will have twisted my arm behind my back
Spat in my face
Kicked my legs out from under me
Held my head in their hands
Pinched my nose shut
Stuck their fingers in my mouth
Pulled it, stretched it, as far as it goes
Then, when my screams cease
They will speak to me for the very first time

"FEAR HIM."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"He will laugh to watch you
Sink into his vat of language
The jewels he's plundered."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"He will confuse you
He will dig forks in the road
To throw you from your cherished path.
He will brand you
With pentagrams
He will tattoo a goat's head on your back
Worst of all, he will convince you
That they mean something."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"He desires to pick your brain
Hoping to pluck
A slither of flattery to fuel his narcissism
He will become very angry when he finds out
That you've never heard of him
Perhaps you have never heard of him
But you know him

"You know him well
You've even seen him
Though it was not his true face you beheld
He roams the land
Behind a smiling cartoon clown mask
That hides a blank stare of greed
Derision, scorn, contempt, lies, pettiness,
Dishonesty, depravity, perversity
And the insatiable lust he has for validation
Respect and Recognition
They have twisted his visage
Into stone and ***** crystal
Ugly diamond
The sight from which even he recoils
A reflection that pulls at his intestines
And pours ice cold fear down his naked back
So we say FEAR HIM."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"Because he knows you're looking for an enemy

"He is possessed of demons
One in particular
But he willingly let it in
Shared communion with it
Offered it a bed for rest
A home, a host
Gave it a book of Crowley and said, 'Occupy yourself'."

"A demon?"

"Yes, and a powerful one
It is a testament to the Conjurer's will and power
That the demon dwells complacent
Content to let the Conjurer study it
To take notice of it's wickedness
(For he delights in wickedness)
To search for ****** in it's black heart
(For he knows that there is a murderer in his own)
To dig through the egg shell surface
Hoping to find a germ, a genesis, or just a reason for it's evil
(As he is convinced he has many legitimate reasons
For the evil embedded into his soul)
The demon understands death, toys with it
Laughs at it, wishes it on all people
The Conjuror laughs with the demon
And this makes the demon laugh even harder
For it knows that the Conjuror has no understanding
Of death
Past the idea
All he has done is flirt
With an ugly girl at the prom
Made it the realm of heroes, his role models
Idols that don't talk back
Held high it's banner
Dreamed of mausoleums and tombs
'At last, something I can embrace'
Fool

"He let this demon be his teacher
And learned much
About
The powers of darkness
The father of lies
The hierarchy of celestial beings
All the arcane symbolism (tossed out the window by science)
Esoterica
Black-robed men carrying candles in the dark
Their teachings ancient, their lessons unheeded, unwanted
Diluted through millenniums
Cracked and drained of any power or
Purpose they might have one day possessed
Robbed of relevance
Outdated curiousities
A good scary movie to watch on Sunday afternoons after church
Morbid fascinations
Spooky dry-ice rituals
That once scared the **** out of him

"His demon goads and teases him
'You can resurrect it", the demon croaks
'You can close your eyes
Make believe it's all real
And just as long as you stay in your hidey-hole
With eyes closed you can call it your own
Posess it
Give it power in your own mind
But keep this thought nestled in the back of your mind:
It's all YOURS.
No one else wants it.'"

There is logic, I think, in what these giants say.

"The Conjurer will drag you into his heart core
And there he will take back the book of Crowley
From his demon familiar
And together they will beat you down with it
Pulverize your skull
Crack open your head
The book of Crowley
Is a very heavy book
Good for pummeling
If not for much else."

And with these words
Power given to brute gods
Transferred to the meek
They will soon learn wisdom
To see the Conjurer as he really is
To realize he has nothing they need or
Want
Prepare themselves
To rip out his soul
To cast out his demon
And to burn that ******* book of Crowley

Sundown was a small town that straddled a small river, which had no name, because there was no need- it was the only river, therefore simply The River. The shores were beautiful- sparkling sand, cans, and the sheen of oil on rocks.
But a little trickle of water escaped through a grove of mismatched green and brown trees and formed a quiet, grey-blue pool, which, like all things, had been claimed. This small pool had the unlikely fortune of being ruled primarily and almost exclusively by frogs.
The Sundown Frogs' dominion over the little pond was broken only on the few days when the black-booted man came to visit.
A rock, neither small nor overly large, sat on the side of the Frog Pond, and the man would sit with the rock and quietly ask for its secrets.
Sometimes the rock would cry, dripping oil and water, and sometimes the rock would remain as stoic as the man himself. 
If the man, a minister, decided sit long enough for the trees to quiet, very slowly, the Sundown Frogs would return, their soft croaks following like shadows.
One day, as the minister had been sitting close by for hours, a frog jumped quite near him. It landed on a lily pad coated with the rock's tears, and the ripples it made reached the minister's unforgiving black boots.
The frog looked at the man, and the man looked back.
This contest of pride was ended only by the soft buzzing of a fly, lazily making its way over the little pond. The minister now straightened his spine, for this was his favorite part.
It was fascinating to him, the frog and it's  life. How her tongue released, curled, and then retracted. Just like that! a death of a fly.
The minister had watched such a show so many times he could imagine the action in his head, step by step, like pictures in a old film reel.
Out like lighting, the curl, the buzzing stops, in quicker than out, and then the silence of death.
And so the minister said to the frog, sitting on her lily pad, "The coming days will be brighter, for the sun must always rise again in the morning."
The frog said nothing, because frogs never do.
In the silence, the frog jumped away, and in the empty silence that followed her hollow splash, the minister promised to return again tomorrow.

At the edge of morning--broad sky fine
And soft as peach skin--
The sun, a round, sweet skinless half--
Rilling water washes through gullied gorge,
Cresting fig root and tongue of cobbled stone,
Lazing into lacquered lake or placid pond;
Squat and pooch-bellied on flatly floating leaf,
The idle toad croaks his great guttural,
Glutted belch.

Where we shoveled coal into the furnace was an inconsiderable door. Behind it held ***** chubby cherubs with cherry tomato noses, whose job it was to keep the fires of our parent's liquor cabinets full. This they did to keep them from constantly beating us, but the happy distraction did not always work. So, we would pluckily go. Go to the scuzzy pond at dusk with kerosine lanterns and listen for croaks. We tied forks to the ends of canes or stakes and would gig bullfrogs for dinner. It became only momentarily mortifying, but was always a choice way of ridding our sisters and other clingy girls of our company. We'd fry the legs in cornstarch and pepper flakes and be allowed to share with the adults their beer if it was a good catch. Usually, it was. Most of forever we waited for teaberry season, always the best time of the year. Though it was hotter than Beelzebub's bath water we'd go swimming in that **** pond to reach our favorite teaberry patches. This ensured our riches and fame throughout our Appalachian village. Everyone would eat teaberry ice cream and sing our names and no one beat us on those days.

Tiktok
The clock says in a hurry
Tiktok
The clock croaks in a constant rhythm

Pit pat
The rain rattling on the roof
Pit pat
The rain runs down in a fast marathon

Dug dug
The heart of your mistress beats
Dud dug
The heart of your lady pulse in a slow dance

Your lady in her white dress
On the floor she lays
Her eyes closed
Her hand closed tight into a fist

Her light lavender hair
Splayed around her head like a halo
Her bottom lip is bleeding
Her breathing unsteady

Kling klang
The chimes sings in a high note
Kling klang
The chimes chants in an attempt of announcement

Woosh woosh
The wind blows harshly
Woosh woosh
The wind whispered loudly

Dug dug dug
The heart of your mistress beats
Dud dug dug
The heart of your lady pulse in chaos

The clock
The rain
The chimes
The wind

Even her heart
The letter clasped in her hand
That contains the news of your demise
Reminds her of what she lost

Drip drip drip
The tears streaming down her face
Sniff sniff sniff
The grief starts to set in

Pale blue sky
Endlessly tumbling clouds
Sleepy and drowsy sun
Waking young moon
Hush, hush distant frogs’ croaks
Swishy-swoshy, rustle of breeze blowing dry grasses.
Every lives’ moment is a movie.

Plush green fields
Sweet melody of birds chirping
The crunching sound of beach’s white sand underneath our feet
Rush, rush sound of the sea
Whistles of patrolling sea gulls
The ****, **** thumping of a heart.
Every lives’ moment is a beautiful song

Red haired dollies
The backyard trees and swings
The childhood crush
The race to meet a tired returning mother.
The humble lamp-lit dinners
The late night story tales.
Every lives’ memory is a classic painting

As a clock counts lives’ time
She drips memories, pictures and songs
This beauty untold
Infinite melodies unsung
That only a keen and positive heart can hear.

By the shadowy waters of the lake in deep woods,
amid owl-calls and shrill cries of crickets,
and croaks of a hundred frogs,
a kindly form speaks a word to my heart.
Clouds blanket the moon from the cold that makes
stars shiver.  On receding nights a warm
corner to bury my head in, from
advancing grey-arms of menacing dawns.
An accepting hug melts all that bothered us bitter
through the storms that raged the night
over. This was all required to begin
over, the morning after. The heart feels
what ears cannot hear. Blessings that miss the eye.

Thoughts spinning round my head,
Making me wish I was dead.
But I cannot die,
I can only cry,
Wishing that my wings could fly.

Ideas March around inside me,
Like a humming of bees.
Twisting me down dark roads
To the croaks of lemon toads.

Spiral pathes,
Brick bathes,
This is insane!
Vibrant colors,
Flowers like 'find anothers',
Are all over.

Here in a world of my own,
The madness here has grown.
So please save me,
By lending us a bit of sanity?

"Insecurities are the worst demons to live with", she stands at the podium.
"Can anyone tell me what insecurities are?", she stares in front, looking at the ten students who were presumed to be messed up by the school board.

A boy with a blue hoodie raises his hand.
"Insecurities are our fears of our fears coming true, it's the absence of feeling safe or secure. Which leads to an emotional turmoil of trying to fix them. To ignore them but ultimately they end up taking us", he speaks confidently as his head is bowed.

"Have you had your fair share of insecurities? ", the girl walks up to him and crouches. She notices the exhaustion in his demeanour, the pain, hidden secrets. And death in his green eyes.
He stares at her brown eyes, filled with sincerity and concern along with a dose of hope. She finally found them.

"Haven't we all?", a girl with grey blonde hair speaks up.
Heads turn and look into her direction.
She plays with the hem of her shirt,
"We started off carefree. Young and willing to explore, we meet people who change our lives who make worthwhile but then others. I don't know about them but they take parts of us and play with them, they toy around with them and then drop us. Like old unwanted toys. We begin to wonder, question our hearts, search our minds trying to figure out where we went wrong and that hurts. We then build unnecessary yet necessary theories as they begin to make sense.  That's when they lurk in. That's how we get them", her voice shakes

The boy with the hoodie sighs, "And to think that's only the first part of them", he looks at the lady and croaks his head, "Studies show that we can get rid of these insecurities but I don't know. I've tried all these measures all the ways of getting rid of them but they don't ever leave. They stay, they don't even lurk in. Shucks depression is nicer than being insecure. Depression leaves for a while. But this", he shakes his head and massages his temples.

The lady walks up to the podium and sighs, "Being insecure is a painful thing to experience because with insecurities comes more demons willing to take advantages of you, willing to destroy you trust me I know"

A girl with glasses begins to laugh, "Everyone here knows that Miss, we're all insecure, this could be in terms of our grades, our love lives, our family, our lifestyle, our sexuality, we are all insecure. But the question here is how do we get rid of them? How do we feel normal? How do we get rid of this insane feeling, the hostility we feel from our own selves. How!?" She pushes her glasses.

The lady sighs once again, staring at the girl. She closes her eyes, "I don't know. I believe there's no way out with insecurities. They manifest inside us, they evolve and they become stronger. All I do is face them head first. I stopped thinking and accepted them. I am insecure and I am learning to accept that I am not perfect"

"Do you think that's the answer Miss", the boy with a red bandana scratched his head.
"Acceptance?" His voice heavy with a British accent.

"You said you learned to accept your imperfections and here you are now. Talking to us about our issues. Does this mean you're no longer insecure?" He furrowed his eyebrows.
"Does this mean there's hope for us?" He smiled exposing his pearly whites.

The lady sighed, pondering on how to answer that.
" I don't think that's what she meant", the boy with the hoodie speaks up.
"What she means is that once we learn to accept them like she did. We can learn to move on. To live with them. And truth is they won't hurt us as much as they do now. I mean we know we're not perfect and its okay. It's about acceptance and appreciation of our scars"

With an aura of comfort



Upon the moon I gaze





An echo of love she croaks









From a distant valley





She speaks of sweet whisperings



Born from the lips of a woman





Summoned forth by temptation



I scurry in lieu of the passion



These sweet whisperings bring me





Perhaps this woman may not ever



Hear what I might say but,



She's worth every breath





Oh, how she haunts my memory so...



The cause for my fear of the unknown



Yet, dearly I still adore her







And with a twinkle



Into the dawn she faded...



Misery and I are



Destined to elope







© 2011 (All rights reserved)

Run away to a foreign country, one with plush yellow green pastures. The grasses hiss soothingly as the breeze brushes them down this way and that. My home, a simple one room shelter built atop a broad and wise dark leafed tree who has welcomed me to its strong open arms. The skirt of my plain brown dress tickles the tops of my feet as I step down onto the soft soily earth.

There are no people here but I am not alone. The wind is here to lift the overflow of thoughts from my ever questioning mind and the water is here to soothe me and commiserate like an old companion purified from the complications of humanity. The dirt is my mother and my father, providing for me. Nurtures me with its succulent plants and cups its hands so that I might take a few small fish from them now and then.

A spotted sun perch hangs behind me as I perambulate meditatively. I see a few delicate vibrant blossoms on the side of my arborous home. They chime a brilliant tune that I will later compose onto a clay canvas. The afternoon is spent cleaning the small token and then toasting it over fire. I tend the patches of nearly wild vegetables and fruits. The most desirable ones plucked for my plate.

Guardian stars begin to dot the serenity of a dazzling dusk that demands my awe. I am aware of my tiny existence and its grand insignificance yet at the same moment I feel as though I was specially chosen by the cosmos to witness this perfect event. An intoxicating shiver grips me suddenly as a gust flits up my spine and through the back of my hair. Slowly it falls and the lulling chirps of a million violinists begin to play to one another. An admiring amphibian adrift the pond lilies relinquishes some commending croaks.

As the dark begins to settle in I climb to my aerial cottage to lie down. The rustling of my nest-bed reminds my neighbor owl of the time and she hoots appreciatively before flying off to begin her hunts. The splendid nocturnal symphony soon sends me to my dreams.

the first of drinks in days descend,
in short successions, teasing rain.
the trees and earth will crane their necks,
to receive like wine on lips, the shower.

they savour not the cool of wine-water,
for the rain itself has travelled long.
and when it lands to quench their thirst,
you hear the sounds of glass and liquor.

the rain has passed, as transient as nature.
another glass later, when the earth croaks dry.
but now, the wine has cooled their lips,
the air revived by a rain perfume…

and down are the necks of the heavy drinkers.

the music fills the room
an old stero crackle just below
the strings and soft peel of drums.
a blue liquid jazz spills out and drowns the
crummy ***** room i'm in
turning it into a smokey night club
washed in deep lavenders and
plush
wine stained
reds.

a man from the bar buys me a gin fizz.
we sway with the horn
and a singer that croaks out
a rusty mournful wail.
mr. gin fizz smokes
and stares at me
hushing me
everytime i try and speak.

we sway
the singer wails
the drums whisper and scratch
the horn paints
hot liquid yellows
that assault those deep blues and reds.
the gin burns
and the music
fills the room.

squeeze my eyes shut
cementing the image
let the world that was
fall and live in the
dark smokey hole that is just
a nights sleep away.

i am beautiful
and i seep with that silent class
that other women do so easily.
draped in something deep
and silky
something that hugs
and drives men like him into fits.

mr.gin fizz orders another round
and lights another for us both.
the bittersweet blues slowly mix
into cool greens and grays of a
thick bass and a set of drums
thats not afraid to speak up
and introduce themselves.

Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp

Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse

Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating

In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright

Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.

Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.

Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.

Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.

Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.

Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.

Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.

This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.

Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.

Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.

On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.

A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone

Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.

I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.

Here in silence, sight the glow
Whereby creatures of night know
Run a rosary in hand
Or else fight
The Flashlight Man

He walks by windows left unlocked
He floods his books with checks of chalk
Some call for help, some have no plan
Though none have knocked
The Flashlight Man

He waits for winter, when all is wind
When wood would be sparse and sparks burn dim
Where flint will be flakes unless inland
Still, some have witnessed
The Flashlight Man

He watches the light go out in bedrooms
What once hosted life, hosts time's ghosts in tombs
Some bottle up time, some sink in their sands
Yet, no nightmares dream of
The Flashlight Man's

He wrings out what's left of what's right and what's wrong
He brings out the best in some boasting in song
Some find him friendly, but soon find that they can't
Who's wise knows someone close
As The Flashlight Man

Asleep by dawn, cocoon by noon, deadly by dusk
In crimson cloaks he clasps his croaks and keeps the husk
One has been told, of age of old, a kid that ran
His name, I'll tell, you know so well
The Flashlight Man

Oooooo
Ooooo
Oooo

The lights were dim,
and the noise was loud,
crowds of people all around.
I lost my way in the throng,
bourne along on the beat of the night.
Cigarettes needed, I left the bar
suddenly there you are.
You tried to chat I wanted none of that
just my smokes and a familiar face,
I tried with grace to let you know
move on, just go.
Just then I I knew my mistake,
you grabbed my arm and hissed in my face
“My name is John”
I tried to smile use some guile,
but you were hell bent, and all that I did seemed to provoke.
I choked the fear down, when I realised we were alone,
how did you get me here?
Wedged between the wall and the cigarette machine.
Croaks were all that I could summon as you undid my buttons,
frozen in fear, switched off from here.
Fight or flight?
Neither just fright.
I remember your smell, your touch, your words
I wanted to scream GO TO HELL but nothing came out.
The kisses were the worst,
no matter how hard I tried to move my head away
your lips, your tongue found their target.
Bruising me, pushing me, grabbing me, groping me
As you pinned my hands behind my back, I gave up,
Just like that.

I'm sad
my friend
sad

you tried
we tried
we cried

you fought
we fought
for naught

craven creature
writhed
and won

I'm sorry
friend
so sorry

how can sun
be gone
yet birds sing

don't they see
can't they tell

it is but stars
an afterglow
all is naught

life has passed
your ailing breath
expired

from darkness sown
by drug cartels
intent

on breaking will
of *** plant babes
sourced for fame

stealthy greed
seduces most
millions sought

want you
and me
they're undeterred

their filly reach
a blinding hate
of freedom's rights

leave humans be
as infants wail
and white coats play

mere blinded dupes
pay dues required
in hallowed halls

and now you're
dead
yes, dead

not anywhere
you've left us
gone

from dirt to dirt
and ash to ash
and so it ends

somehow we must
decide to breathe
when you cannot

I hold you still
in memory's dream
my brother sweet

though in my arms
the grief burns
pure

writhe impotent
in essence true
we're nil

no flow of tears
will soothe you now
they've ceased

the dreaded C
has had its day
too bad

too bad
our useless words
rebound

a spinning wheel
pathetic croaks
on fade porch

perhaps if we...
I should have said...
why didn't I...

and so it goes

tortured mind
unwilling thrusts
accept the truth

grim reaper came
and now he's
gone

another love
will soon be
marked

why you dear friend
Lord, please
not you

the rivers dam
there are no streams
that be enough

remorse it screams
why not the swines
the great unwashed

why was it you
the good
- why

The world ended,
I ruffle my blanket to
cover
my cold feet.

A lovely
soundtrack of birds
chortle outside; never mind the mechanical
croaks & ***** howls.

I haven't seen a human
all day. The most underrated
turn-off is a mirror,
as I think to myself.

She must be distraught, on the
other side of town,
while I am loosely here
& not a text to cool me down.

Listen to those quiet old streets,
A throng of old people,
Soaked with years they’ve gone through
Bending meekly and closing their eyes,
You’ll hear them if you close your eyes.
Notes fall from the heavens
As if on this earth’s piano roll
Arpeggio from the heavens
Gray angles play them overhead
I have never seen god, but now
We have a friendly rendezvous,
In the streets I walk
And now I see his tears.


Listen here, the lapping of tiny oceans,
And the croaks of delight
From the sneaking strangers

Or listen, the Apsaras,
They have deigned to dance on earth than in heavens
Their fairy-tale robes kissing the mud, the water.


Or the strings of a Sitar,
That echoes from the blossomed clouds.

Or if you’re tired like me,
Let’s take a seat beside those
Who with their all life loathe this day,
As their homes get washed away
Drenched to their skin they wait for the sun
God doesn’t live here for them
You can find him in those lanky edifices.
O look at those naked but happy toddlers!
They know not what life can be
Being the debris of a society
Hah, only were they blessed by these tears
God cries from the heavens…

Not as real as once imagined,
She drifts through an eternal fog.
The visions now mean nothing.
The frog in the tree croaks low.

Lone feet meet in a windstorm of tragedy.
It was not her time to depart,
But she finds herself nowhere else but here.
And now.

Not a tear leaks.

The terrestrial globe.
The sub-aquatic orb.
I am lost.

She rambles through time,
Careless and soundless.
She folds her hands neatly,
Noiseless and motionless.

A lofty ship is spotted far out at sea.
It looms in the pellucid distance,
a maroon and grey colored
vision of possibility.

I imagine scores and scores of packets of rice
held tightly together like sandcastles,
eager to be used and washed and boiled
And buttered and lightly salted.

Or heavy machinery assembled by
Weary and jealous hands
that wish they weren't so obedient
That too wish they were strong enough
To attempt the buoyant dance of exile.

As the Atlantic Ocean belches muscular waves
that melt like smoke ash at my toes,
another vision gathers at the horizon.

A seacraft is maundering,
It croaks its dissatisfaction as
Limbs knitted together like
Unruly ***** poke into every crevice.
Bight of Biafra’s children have been cloven.

The salty spring of the water mixed with
The rust of ***, dried sweat and lifeless bodies
Makes for a particular entrance to the Caribbean Sea
This is life now.

Nothing sweet or nice about this.
Port Royal is not far off and she’s
Eyeing the new load of hesitant visitors
Tasked with tilling her soil and harvesting her sugar
She sighs with them.

My feet feel the cool touch of the grass as I tip toe across the lawn. These long summer nights hold such a blissful innocence about them. Even in growing up, working at a desk job, and paying all the bills, I still feel like a kid when I am surrounded by fireflies in the cool, refreshing twilight air of a Wednesday night in June.

On my checkered blanket, the wind rustles the grass around me and each blade begins to dance to a song you can hear if you are quiet enough...

Distant wind chimes ringing, the breeze rustling the branches, the cicadas chip both near and far, a frog family croaks from the creek near by. There are few moments in this world where peace can wash over someone. In this moment, on the ground, in my PJs, I, a 20 something tired warrior, shine my flashlight toward the sky above in awe so that I may add my light to the infinate chorus above.

The serene nights of summer take me back to a time much simpler. A time when our only worries were 'can we get all of our adventures done in the time before we have to go to sleep?'. A time I go back to every June, just to feel that closeness, that humanity that I so crave. We are more than this zombie-like figure that takes over our bodies each day. We are creative and imaginative. We are fun loving and kind. We are children at heart and we need to stop depriving that child of the happier things in life.




-t.s.

I walk around
The air as still as can be
Shivers run up and down my spine
The room is like a blank canvas
The only color is the yellow tiles
And the fading white walls


The chair creaks as I sit
The sound bouncing from the walls
My shoulders lean forward
And my eyes close to imagine
This room from when I was a child


The memories start spilling,
They make my heart ache,
My throat close,
And my chest burn.


The floor underneath croaks with each step
And the doors have started slamming with the lightest breeze
The windows can’t hold themselves up anymore
And I realize
The room I grew up in
The room with all my greatest moments
Has become a place that’s no longer recognizable
Only the aroma brings back
A trace of childhood
That’s left in this broken place
I once called home

i got my picture back today

and even though i just sat quietly
in a corner of my room
with the blinds shut
and the door locked,
even though i stared at the ceiling,
breathing in and out, in and out,
and came to terms with it,
even though i convinced myself i'd be okay,

somehow my skin looks ready to be checked out,
my eyes are two overfilling ponds,
somehow my voice chokes and croaks,
somehow my fingers have stained the carpet

and there's this girl in my head
and she's screaming
and i would give anything to make her stop
stop digging at her cells
stop burrowing into her DNA
stop exhuming her genes

i will always stay this way,
i wish i could tell her.
i will always stay this way,
and it's pointless to think otherwise.

You laid on a towel, eyes glued to a screen
That phone was more interesting than me,
And you missed so much because of it
You missed the ducklings that swam by
Missed the giant pelican that landed on the cypress tree
You missed the way the current changed with the wind
You missed the croaks of the alligators
Missed the sounds of acoustic guitar and James Taylor
You missed the way the sun light hit my hair
You missed my brown eyes trying to find yours
You missed the conversations we could have had
You missed the tiny moments that make a memory
You'll remember a boring day or texting someone else
But I'll remember the birds, the music, the water, the smells
I'll remember the conversations in my head
And I'll remember how you weren't a part of it

many we bleed from our mouths,
waterfalls of cherry vitality coating writing canvas,
sinking--melting--within twisted tongues,
and they're sure to ban us.

with graphite--with ink!--juicy wrists beg no mercy,
'gainst the natives with stash minds,
for our pain melts like water over leather,
yet sinks branding upon skeletons.

for we are blessed by God to bestow eulogies for one another,
as one tips from silver seat,
another awakens his place,
with picky gums and robins for teeth.

and how the ache and thirst must be great!
for the explorers must find all 10 fingers 'tween pages,
clad with strawberries and gauze,
and lips chewed off by ages.

and hollow words are gurgled by luscious syrup,
and packages droop 'neath vocabulary scholars,
O back, O bottom, O mind aches thee!
for only thousands to endure the shock collars.

for little Alice would fear to sit with our odor,
as gears and cogs steam--overheat--with vehemention,
and nights--pray tell--pray tell,
are long and arduous drinking lobes with the devil.

for four frays fancy flights!
'til grandfather croaks your retire,
and we blood-let and let leeches sink 'neath tender armor,
and shadows usurp darker.

as we are vampires--but crave the stone light,
and pour magma into our young's bellies,
so they may inherit our plight,
and ring off their tellies.

which noose may I bind?
which hand may I lock?
which tendon should twine?
which ink should I rock?

as we let, t'is nothing but medical,
as our teeth melt from mouths,
and our eyes dismiss with ridicule,
as our wrists are slaughtered,
and minds fluster through obstacles.

our hearts are obvious time bombs,
that rush to supply our cherry,
but when will the stunning twinkle cease to live on?
and be nothing but lemon balm?

O the sea we cross is made of iron--rust--and steel,
and lusts for its named called out,
for if we delve within this eel.
it'll surely be leaving no room for elders to rout.

the drive for honeyed poison excites me,
and the ache of the chew grows more,
at the thought others will see,
spin innards at the drop of the lore.

for we are the ones that wished for nothing more,
but to be charmed by crimson, and keys, and herrings,
and we pray for the pricking ore,

so the world may finally wear the pain as our custom earrings.