Here I am on the hedge,
Amidst the forest of doubt,
One who've sworn not to pledge,
Proudly wear my shroud.

There's night in my head
And smoke in my guts,
Nothing's clear to my mind,
Porcelain is my heart.

With a black tooth grin
Bear mysery crown
With my soul in the wind
And my faith in the ground.

Eyes - by chance fallen leaves
Under the bushes of eyebrows,
Fulvous brown and grass green
Hidden in the shrubs' shadows.

Dead pale skin covers me,
Brown ivy curls down my shoulders.
There's blue blood in my veins
And I greet you, beholder.

Childly mushy cheeks
Rubbed by claws of white,
Full of shudder twists
Hope to thrill your mind.

Preying on your smiles,
Drinking up your breaths.
Forgive me for a while
Lack of wings on my back.

Fissures cut through thick mocha fur, saturating
The forest floor with stark crimson. The deer flails,
Broken, knees buckled, breath shallow and emerging
As vanishing steam in frosty November air.
He falls on a bed of sugar maple leaves, illuminated
In dappled sunlight and fulvous hues.

“Must’ve been the coyotes,” my brother whispers,
As my pocketknife meets the stag’s throat. Gentle
Auburn clouds and freezes time, the body falls still.

My father says, “Sacrifice is a form of worship, but it is only through
Mercy that we may show passion for what we believe.”

Coyote bites prevent carvings from going to Buxton’s General Store,
But what nature produces it also receives.
Ants forage along the split underbelly,
And a red-tailed hawk carries away the entrails.

History defines the antlers of deer as symbols of the Gods,
And men would wear them atop their heads.
I collect only them, still draped with threads of velvet,
Knowing that years from now, nestled inside the perimeter
Of wind-beaten fences around the family farm, beyond
Moss-covered slopes and the Wishing Rock,
Will be the bones of a solitary stag.

Savour them: the small moments
That keep us interconnected. Weaving
Over and under, through fulvous flows  
Permanently digressing through life.
Let the colours change, and with them, so too do
I change, slowing and speeding,
Gas to break, to give and take. Crimson default,
Halting finally, for a few brief moments,
Tension grows, but the world seems at peace, until
Sudden flicker of green, and back we roll into the machine.

“And only the azure painted sky to shake the rain from its sound,” so the plain falls, opening its mouth through a bed of headstones dotted with the hollowed trunks of magnolias and cedar at afternoon and that cameo of calamansi velour interwoven with the softest glaucous velvet. Inside that whirlpool of sacrosanct textiles a blur, that shocking shrill of coolness catches the skin- this hole-covered schmata oozing cesious acronychal threads pull tight across the hooves, branches, and stream. Only the thin repelling flume of winter’s height eschews this ianthine material over the sinews and map-lined bones. A corpse shortening its gaze, eyes stone-free, empty of nictitation. Nothing stings more than autumn’s filemot sins scraping sideways down a tiled balcony, and the dove’s beg like circus rats, shaped by the finite breaths of decade’s old poetry edging its moods like a bold inflammatory conflagration of the  de-evolution. While the fulvous trammeled dirt abounds.

If only you realized
what you do to me.

My yolk drips from
the ruined shell, and
evaporates in the sun.
All yellow to yellow.

As if the ovate would
smudge your lipstick,
and fill the cracks in-
between your ribs.

A sunflower smile.
A sunflower smile.
Fulvous and Stoic.
A crocus never cries.

Push me to the back,
'cause all the others
are intact, whoa, just
push me to the back.

And leave your lemon-
peels at the door, all
tawny from the souls.
Flaxen stains on the shoe.

A split libido.
A peeled banana.
With no-one to slip.
Makes me wanna laugh.

Love me nots in mounds,
until the nucleus is barren.
Oxeye's odds in hell.
I'll leave it up to chance.

Over sarcoline sand, I stare,
it is dotted here and there,
fulvous and falu umbrellas impaled,
the smaragdine waves try but fail.

Over and over it tries to stay,
while on the beach the children play,
burned to shades of amaranth pain,
and suddenly cooled by afternoon rain.

My eyes are trapped by the coquelicot,
her bikini color, on her yacht,
I watch and yearn as it cruises by,
a single tear streams from my eye.

But I wipe it away and take a drink,
the chartreuse liquid lets me think,
the taste of citrus, and of salt,
down the beach, my eyes do walk.