Movement stirs within womb of thought;
spellbound in fluid sac, fetally curled in
warmth; neither blooming in mind or
heart as host is indecisive; concept mote.

mind blank; confused as...

dubious action causes shame, bearing of
birth unwanted; incestuous violations,
sexually abused as crimson feather blooms
within body too young to blush; thoughts
in flaming anger flushed.

drenched in attrition...

passionate disdain of horrid disgust; in hand,
hanger of mass destruction; a fetal demise
plays against familial distrust, inside mind
combusts; a finger pointed, says, young eyes
beguiled and flamed their lust.

innocence stolen..

in back alley clinic, I extract what is just,
aftertaste, body refuting life flushed;
pysche destroyed, used like someone's toy,
chastity drained from eyes; no longer angelic;
turned cold and coy, ambivalence to destroy.

devious ploys invade anima of woman-child,
turned frigid of emotions; used and abused,
even though given emancipation rights; making
fledgling choices; in voices, now foul-tongued.

still young....

dumbfounded within...

yet, fetally unsprung...

Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over  his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.

What can I do with this bayonet?
Make a rose bush of it?
Poke it into the moon?
Shave my legs with its silver?
Spear a goldfish?
No. No.

It was made
in my dream
for you.
My eyes were closed.
I was curled fetally
and yet I held a bayonet
that was for the earth of your stomach.
The belly button singing its puzzle.
The intestines winding like alpine roads.
It was made to enter you
as you have entered me
and to cut the daylight into you
and let out your buried heartland,
to let out the spoon you have fed me with,
to let out the bird that said *******,
to carve him onto a sculpture until he is white
and I could put him on a shelf,
an object unthinking as a stone,
but with all the vibrations
of a crucifix.

supine, deeply do I ponder
of those times as if, I've
treaded upon coal ablazed
beds, of womb fetally
withdrawn; darkness embeds
itself, attempting to see
with clarity through murky
watered canvasses

I, analyze self, coping
with turmoil; glimpsing
the light at the end of
elongated tunnels, leaving
burdensome baggage
that isn't a *** of gold
at the end of a rainbow

giving way to self-awareness
as a glorified sunrise opens
to new horizons; long awaited
as if, eons have passed without
notice, finally, arriving at my
threshold of salvation by the
grace of God; sanity redeemed

Sometimes, I wish I could incubate,
fetally embracing my demons,
and arising only when I am
once again,
whole.

once blue alone where sun never shone
all curled fetally into a ball until
a visage in glass said I love you,

then rose yellow flowers
on the brightening horizon
you looked on hearing, I love thee!

Never before , had you seen such sunrises,
heard the magnificence of symphonies,
envisaged a day so wonderful.


Until you, that day looking at a reflection,
a vision of you smiling confident,
accepted you and saw how beautiful

You are!

the trees cast their gaze away
from the rot of a ******,
the inexplicable slaughter of a sapling,
its singular leaf blackened and
fetally curled.

they cry, "we could not move,
we could do nothing," and nothing
they did worked because they did
nothing.

innocence now only remembered
in the pungent stench of death,
an infant body but charcoal in the ground.

they wail, "for there was no rain,
for there was no sun, we have yet again been forsaken!", trembling in harsh winds
that carry the ashes of their children.

they strip themselves, for it seemed wiser
to clothe the dead than the living, and so
a singular broken stem lay beneath a swathe of fading foliage, brown and red
enveloping an all too conspicuous black.

even as the fire ravages their naked bark,
even if the forest goes up in flames,
even though they have been forsaken,
they will at least die in the embrace
of a world that once loved them.