a twig snaps beneath my shoe,
the sudden sound shattering the calm atmosphere.
sunlight dapples over my skin,
rippling across my clothes,
pooling in my cupped hands
as if i were holding it.
delicate leaves rustle overhead,
my attention to the emerald glow above only broken
by the hum of a bumblebee
buzzing its way to yet another flower.
trees, seemingly protective,
surround me,
their trunks a shelter for such a variety of creatures.
sweet birdsong echoes above.
a woodpecker taps a home somewhere to my left.
a chipmunk skitters across my path
and into the still ferns,
causing them to shudder.
the scent of soil, of leaves, of nature, floods me.
i wonder about the world,
about the mountains and about the sea.
about my friends, my family,
about strangers with lives
just as complex and unknowing as my own.
i ponder myself, my life,
where will i go?
what will i do?
will it all be worth it?

-l.s.

Three sugars. No cream.
Stuck inside a 4 A.M. Dream
And there's nothing I can't do
Is the sky really black or just dark blue?

No cars, no souls save preying police
Their lights burn red and scream, "Freeze!"
And the night obliges
For it is not so mighty

Glass half full, still starving
Clouds overmind work their sky carving
Of all my favorite fluffy animals
Are vampires iron deficient cannibals?

The sun soon breaks like an egg on the edge
And the dream skitters light spiders from my head
Eyes pressed to withered pillow sheathing
Is this morning or deeper evening?

Am I waking from the dreaming
Or am I sleeping next to coffee steaming?

"You're not one of them", he says
"I can tell, I got this GIFT, see?"
The relief clear on his animated face
Too twitchy, too... off
"They watch us, you know?
They got those satellites and ****
They'll read your ID through your pocket
Then they gotcha!"
I nod, only mildly alarmed
And throw down my smoke.
Step on it to make sure it's out
"Only you can prevent forest fires"
A childhood echo
He picks it up
Looks wildly around
"Your DNA is on that! Epithelials!
I seen it! I seen it on that CSI!"
I mumble something
His eyes narrow. He laughs too hard.
"Kidding man, I'm just kidding"
He skitters off, like an ant missing 4 legs
I look up, and nod to the ****** on the roof.

~JNc
9-15

The girl with the brown hair
And brown eyes cries
Three people stand in a kitchen.

Two steady, with eyes that pierce holes in her head,
The third pacing restlessly, eyes undead.

A dog skitters by
And jumps on one of them,
They pet her, as she is oblivious to what is happening and therefore innocent to the quiet screams and hopeless mutters of the brown eyed girl and her worries.

One of them taller, hands in his pockets and eyes just a bit red
But not quite red enough to be marred by tears.

The other small and leaning on the counter,
There is blood in her mouth and tears in her eyes
Even though this isn't her tragedy.

The brown eyed girl,
So beautiful, so smart,
Silently torn apart by an emotionless kiss and absolutely meaningless talks about absolutely nothing,
Slowly tries to die in front of them.

Sways on her feet as she leans on the couch-
They've moved now to the living room and though the house is empty it has been filled by feelings of melancholy and mutual worry for one another -
Though nobody will let her fall,

For the eyes in her head
And the heart in her chest
Are worth a swim though broken glass.

("No, because glass gets in your fingers and it's really hard to get out.")

Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
To Concord, at the edge of things, was this:

To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds,
Not to transform them into other things,
Is only what the sun does every day,

Until we say to ourselves that there may be
A pensive nature, a mechanical
And slightly detestable operandum, free

From man's ghost, larger and yet a little like,
Without his literature and without his gods . . .
No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air,

In an element that does not do for us,
so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big,
A thing not planned for imagery or belief,

Not one of the masculine myths we used to make,
A transparency through which the swallow weaves,
Without any form or any sense of form,

What we know in what we see, what we feel in what
We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,
In the tumult of integrations out of the sky,

And what we think, a breathing like the wind,
A moving part of a motion, a discovery
Part of a discovery, a change part of a change,

A sharing of color and being part of it.
The afternoon is visibly a source,
Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm,

Too much like thinking to be less than thought,
Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch,
A daily majesty of meditation,

That comes and goes in silences of its own.
We think, then as the sun shines or does not.
We think as wind skitters on a pond in a field

Or we put mantles on our words because
The same wind, rising and rising, makes a sound
Like the last muting of winter as it ends.

A new scholar replacing an older one reflects
A moment on this fantasia. He seeks
For a human that can be accounted for.

The spirit comes from the body of the world,
Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a world
Whose blunt laws make an affectation of mind,

The mannerism of nature caught in a glass
And there become a spirit's mannerism,
A glass aswarm with things going as far as they can.

Inspiration from a fellow writer
And a chance at contemplation on a peaceful Saturday afternoon
Have led to a quest for forgotten moments
And thoughts of pleasant abstractions.
A hint at appreciative visuals
Carries the thought to a fig tree
Growing majestically in its place in its earthen patch.
Words fail to describe the abundance of life that exists
As sparrows flit through branches heavily laden with fruit
While the wind gently rustles leaves shaped like green hands outstretched,
Casting gentle shadows on a silently bustling anthill.
A hummingbird zooms in to smell a fruit,
Squeaks twice, and exits with the soft thrum of its wings.
A lizard skitters through the jungle of grass and snaps up a mouthful of ants
Bringing chaos to the ant kingdom.
Yet tranquility is soon restored to the fig tree soaking in the solar rays,
And the tomato quietly ripening under a cloudless sky.
Under that same sky, countless battles rage
And boiling chaos tears at its leash.
All of creation groans with pain of labor
As the fallen dig deeper in their graves
And are consumed by beastly desires.
In a forest, countless leaves gently whisper their sorrows
As warm light dances through the shadows.
The surface of a pond, as smooth as glass
Is only momentarily broken by ripples of activity
While the beholder stares deeply into the reflection.
Below the surface, ghoulish beings lurk in the mire
While deeper still, the mud of hypocrisy churns wildly
As the unworthy tongues set in and will clash in unfathomable violence.
There is something desperately wrong
Yet churlish scoffers ignore the signs
Blinded in selfishness and greed.
Again and again they play games of chess
Where all the pieces are pawns
Replaced with fake queens
While the kings of value are forgotten
Set aside until they are shot to pieces.
Yet all this is hidden, beneath the surface of impeccable glass
As devilish turmoil roars beneath the skins of men.
There is but one hope for a life of meaning
In which true peace can be restored.

This evening I can feel the fingers of Migraine - black to the bones and crawling with snakes - as they push my eyes forward.
This is pure seduction, the pressure. I can see it - my frail, jagged optic nerve resting between the first and second finger like a cigarette. With each drag Migraine takes, a flash of brilliant pain (high-beam, spotlight, strobe, flashbulb) skitters across my field of vision. I mistake them for rabbits.
And the chase is on. Mechanical dog, mechanical bull, mechanical rabbit of pain like firecrackers, in slow motion. Half-time signatures flutter again as the thing made of snakes inhales my eyes. I guess I am making love to it.
The rain is coming in waves, marked by drops you can count on your hands, in intervals of five minutes. It comes and it fades, mimicking the snake-monster-thing living in my skull, huffing everything I see, getting high on the fumes of the images I feed to it: this paper, these words, blue pen and black sky.
There is a similar sensation in my stomach. I tried to drown butterflies in decaffeinated coffee, and they are fighting back, with constant pressure on the flexible walls of my insides.
They are hungry but know that they must wait three-and-a-half days to eat. They are taunted by words - short responses. They are teased by intense surges of memory, and by smiles that stalk the underside of my brain (have they seen the snake-monster?), waiting to submerge themselves in the calm, reflective water of my face. **** those ripples. They fall down my spine, from the base of my neck where Migraine has made his nest. I shiver.
I am made of ink, rabbits, rain, and butterflies tonight. These shapes I force my pen to draw are serendipitous, falling randomly (rain drops that have collected on the leaves of a tall tree but remain long after the sky has finished sobbing) atop the heads of unsuspecting strangers and one beautiful girl. Why does she always carry that **** blue umbrella?
The answer, of course, is gray matter and black memory, more harsh than my last cigarette will be, four days from now. The answer is experience, drought and flood. The answer is in Migraine, who makes up one third of my soul, and the soul of every human - although he may pick up a different face and hobby.
The answer is that I don't know the answer. I will not until she sets aside that artificially colored canvas reality-shield she carries, and talks with me. With the rain falling on our heads - hers filled with memory and brains, mine with whimsy and Migraine - the mechanical rabbit will come down from his track to dance at our feet, to kiss our rain-soaked shoes. He will lead us to puddles we can jump into.
Splash. Glorious Splash. Migraine is receding to his nest and the butterflies have taken one step closer to contentment. The rain falls, the ink falls with it, and sanity once again speaks to me.
I've missed you, old friend.

There's a first time for everything, I guess

My initiation to the cult of harm came last night
After I'd made sure everyone had gone to bed
Crept over by the window and moonlight
Placed my arm on the altar in front of me
Mechanically, efficiently swabbing it with alcohol
Scent sterile
For even in this, I will hold onto the pretense of a rationalist

I deride myself, tell myself I'm just going through with it because it's what people would expect from the depressed
That I could stop myself easily and so it's my fault if I don't
But god, I want to lose control so badly

The needle skitters across my skin and I shiver
It dances swirls along my arm
You don't need blood and scars for pain

It scrapes angrier against my skin
And a blissful silence pierces my head
As my own voice fades from between my ears

It's a trance-like happiness
A closed-eyed, fluttering-lashes smile
A beautiful pain throbbing, bringing me back to myself
I could have stayed up hours on that one taste of losing control
But this was just an initiation so I dragged myself away

There's not a trace the next day
Except in my mind where I hunt for all acceptable forms of pain
Push on your bruises, a friend advised
Pencil tips, pens

I stop myself
I resist
I said I wasn't going down this path

I'm on my own in August, I only have to make it to then
Then help, so no more of this

I wait until everyone falls asleep again
And though I am exhausted, stumble toward the moonlight
Sterilize, needle in hand, ready to dance

I refuse to go any farther, I tell myself

Death laughs from inside my head
Baby steps he snickers and
Isn't that what you said last time, doll?

There's a first time for everything after all

I won't,
I reassure the needle tracing kisses across my skin.
I'm fine.

North America: Hornets buzz in a stinky green
         dumpster
Pidgeon's feet clasp the edge of a skyscraper
          rooftop

South America: Moonlight in the jungle ---- rain
          pats a thick, fleshy leaf ---- a yellow eyed
          panther slowly blinks once

Asia: Edge of the desert ---- a boiling mirage
          scorpion skitters across dry, cracking soil

North America: Wyoming high plains ---- cool
          gusts ---- hulking, brown bison chews grass

Africa: Wrinkly old woman in a hospital gown
         squeezes the cot's cold metal bars, then feels
         nothing, squints at the florescent light above,
         then sees nothing, listens to the drone of
         medical machines ---- silence

Europe: A  child is born in the sterile light
        of the delivery room, naked, slimy, sobbing

    
                                    *--- Burlington, VT, 2013

falderal and balderdash
two little imps,
of some small renown.

falderal is a skinny,scrawny slip of a thing.
all intelligent darkness, rootlike in nature.
all grasping and clinging hands and feet.

balderdash, well he is
as his name implies,
round and shiny.
far less than exceedingly bright.
stolid, and cat curious,
smile quite endearing,
but a sense of humor
to be fearing.

imps they are,
as already stated,
of the cadre of earthbound. they are to each,
the yingle to the yangle,
the left to the right,
the peanut butter to the jelly, the day to the night.

apprentice and journeymen they be,
falderal quick to rush through the ranks. balderdash on record,
for longest ever time,
at the start of the race.
they are attatched to the place,
the "rooms" if you will.
of the quacksalver,
come life's strife coach, buttinskimentor.
(he thought to modernise and appeal to a larger demographic spread of people).
the shingle over his eaves, pronounces his name to be, hi. p.r. condriac esq.
if you please.

one day it might be,
when you are feeling,
confused and perhaps,
a tad frail
you skim your junk mail, then, you may find his brightly hued pamphlet,
just skitters to the pile top
and with the dust of conviction spread over thick, and a little innoccuos doubt, another mind trick.
you stupidly think i might try this chap out!
his work sounds appealing, if somewhat radical,
i hope i get lucky
and he gets to revealing,
the source of the foot odour, the smell in my shoes.
that makes me think of hell, and regurgitated *****.

unbeknown to your goodself you have begun, a set of trials, a hopless spell,
a winding serpentine course of sysiphian tasks,
(at a kind and generous 10percent off)
to rid yourself of,
this unholy smell,
which really is,
if i am a secret to tell,
the *** of falderal
and of course the sweat of balderdash's shiny brow,
and places less mentionable,
applied with delighted relish and made to stick with medical grade super glue.

and so after months of debraiding your life,
a light switches on
and an epiphany occurs,
you become wise to these minions of strife
and garner up the courage to yell "
it is a sham and he, but a shylock"

you then wend your way back to the good doctors rooms.
i can garantee you he will not be there,
to listen to your plight,
with due care he has long since,
packed up his snake show, revved up his vespa
and into the night's cacophony,
he has driven,
with journey man falderal and apprentice balderdash, in tow,
clinging on tight,
to the rear mudguard.

he now has other fools in his sight.

as to the problem of the pongy shoes,
to be rid of the smell.
the answer so simple,
you will hear in your mind the loud ringing of bells. garbage the lot shoes,
socks as well.
walk the world barefoot.
you will not be mocked,
but you may find that people mention the words,
slightly eccentric,
when you come to mind

Here I am
in the deep curve
of the pavement's push
toward salt-bleached ends.

There is a stillness
within my ear
so that I only hear
my hanging breath,
wreathes of frost
like smoke rings
in the dried sub-zero.

Snow is coming,
probably the usual
Mid-Atlantic dusting,
though it falls fat
like the soap flakes
that I poured
from a box
when I was
a child.

I distrust quiet.
I need noise
& music
& voice
to still my inner self.
It reminds me
over and over
I don't belong,
I don't belong.
Snow dulls the world,
wakens the mind.

The late night thoughts
are far the worst.
They part me out
like a side of meat
under the butcher.
I lay on the bed,
the cat kneading my gut,
& I think yes, go ahead,
turn me inside out.

The snow comes
as an ambush,
though you could almost
sense it, vaguely.  
The traffic slows
until only
the city trucks pass,
with the rattle
of rock salt
which skitters like dice
across the face of the street.

No more passersby
under the yellowed blush
of the streetlight.
Windows of the neighboring
buildings are closed
against the buckling gusts
of wind so cold it hurts.

Nothing left against the snow
except myself.
When the mind begins
its thoughtful treason,
& advances the first pawns
in a despairing game,
I have no good defenses.

Open the window,
catch the scent of snow
over the world,
& feel attuned
to the many pieces
of the clouds,
that fall and fall
until they vanish forever.

this throbbing in my chest,
it engulfs me.
the delirious assumption of neglect,
that putrid feeling of self pity,
how disgusting.
bone grinds bone in my mouth,
my jaw aches with hatred
until my vision blurs over
with hope of ignorance.
a pathetic waste of life.
i breathe deep but,
it doesnt satiate my thirst,
for that fresh breath of promise.
there is only one end,
to that crippling pain that
crackles through my brain,
like spiderwebs of battered glass.
the sharp horrid sensation
of imploding from the depths of my entrails.
another breath wasted.
a pulsation so strong,
my fingers twitch with the
onrushing river of blood that courses
through me like toxic waste.

oh,
to live again.

the warm salty fluid of loneliness,
rests on my lip before flavoring
my tongue with disdain.
it burns.
what was my purpose?
what do you all want from me?
cheeks flush pink with oncoming denial.
i dont care! i dont care!
my ribcage convulses.
dont think.
...stop it!
a warm rotten gasp escapes
my chafed lips.
i swallow hard.
the need to forget.
i tease my trembling wrist,
with the cold steel of promise.
it's clever charisma creates
a tingling sensation of power
that jolts my nerves.
alarmed hairs stand on edge.
my heart skips a beat with excitement.

oh,
to live again.

i drag the point down my inner arm,
snagging skin as the tip skitters about.
please. forgive me.
i slice down without hesitation.
my eyes swell with shimmers of relief.
blood spills over.
a warm crimson rush of despair
dribbles onto my lap.
my thighs are speckled with the
greatest high of relief.
i laugh at the
bubbling layer of fat that
wiggles from its crater,
like maggots gluttonously feeding
from a rotted carcass left
to shrivel in the heat.
my bottom lip splits with a smile.

oh,
to live again.

a slowing heartbeat.
my shoulders relax.
i inhale sharply.
it singes my lungs with a
wildfire of threat,
but i care not.
awww sweet dopamine.
the sanguine pool clots
around my feet.
i clench my toes in the mess
with childlike hysteria,
sand at the beach,
such polluted thoughts.
feeling faint,
a mind now at complete peace.
my head takes a bow between my knees.
the tips of my hair tickle the last
bit of trouble i've created for you.
the room fogs over.
such a soothing shade of white.
im weightless and floating,
angelic.
i close my weary eyelids.
time no longer to be wasted.
i meant no harm.
the end is inevitable.
useless body of baggage.
woe is me.
exhale.

oh,

to live again.

You are allowed to laugh, I've heard it is good medicine.



(sonnet #MMMMMCMXCII)


Alas.  I cherish too much, in a sense,
October's pale eye, and how in betrayl
Thet lonely yellow leaf 'non skitters, frail
And hapless 'cross the blacktop, lost from hence
Within grey shadows as cold winds breathe thence
In careless fashion through worn Maples' hale
Stance, green, orange-kissed and whispring of ne bail
Whilst Death walks silent through this vague suspense.
These blue skies wear a cloudless mien as twere,
Yet blinding echoes of thin fragments do
Some tour of duty in their backdrop fer
Good measure.  Yellow gladrags dance, the crew
Of staid leaves fragile.  But I love't all, poor
As saying is, only wanting, yessir:  You.

24Oct16a

The little spider sits
atop a paperback novel with a faded
cover, skitters along when it sees the
shadow of a descending
Chanel lofer and inaudibly
squeals as it is crushed
beneath the polished leather, four-inch
heel.

Tears melt my face as sadness overcomes grace
You see, the night it swallows any light
Happiness is as distant as a dream
Part memory, part fantasy

Insomnia runs through my veins like ice
Keeps me conscious, skitters like mice
But I can't continue this lifeless plight
Changes must be made, I'll be all right

Read the soul, develop the mind
Understand, or risk going blind
Don't take my word for it, hop on board
The meditation train, harmony's restored

Great gusts of wind rattle the windows,
howling, howling,
I sit at my desk,
and peer out my window:
A lit door in a
driveway, I see it through dancing
twigs through black of night:
the house of my neighbor

He comes to the door in a grey robe, opens it,
his sniffle echoes to my window,
an orange cat runs out,
skitters with soft paws across the cold pavement out of the spotlight-streetlight, behind a
           dumpster,
The wind, the wind,
it's shaking my building,
it's whipping the belt of his robe.
I close my eyes.

I open my eyes.
City Hall: white steeple, gold dome,
City Hall is illuminated purple out the window,
out the window:
streetlights, lit windows, dancing trees,
I focus my eyes, see myself.
I look angry.

Sound of a siren,
I look down,
back,
in the driveway,
blue and red lights,
a squadcar is parked.
I can't do this, I think.
I'm tired.
My building shudders in the wind,
don't want to say too much,
don't want to say
too little.

Panic
my chest beats
staccato on a snare drum
Fingers twitch
pen skitters
letters, syllables, lost
Run!
run far away and
leave this place-
there’s nothing left
of your humanity.
The gods embrace my tremors
and their love
enflames destruction.
Inferno consecrating,
consume the ash
a phoenix
(my soul sings)

once more, with feeling
he calls as the bow skitters across the strings, my fingers
artfully pouncing down and around in a small space,
an elaborate tap dance and I feel my body reeling back as my soul
takes over, into autopilot and if I think, I'll make a mistake
I can feel the beat of the percussion moving through the section as I
am united to my standpartner and we to the rest of the world,
with feeling as the cellos strike their solo,
with feeling as the flutes take the melody,
again and we support the violas
I'm plucking now,
I shall never forget this,
the music swells and we are one, we are all
tenuously supporting each other with a connection that is so fragile
if it breaks now, it is lost, the world shall begin again but a little less
magical without it, the crescendo ripples and our hearts thrum,
too special even to write about accurately,
we know each other, we are all that matter now,
I have never felt more or less of a stranger,
it is just for the moment,
it cannot break, with feeling this time.

Deep down Sand Man shakes
my mighty mind, controlled,
~
that phantom dance moves, takes
my shivered spine, ahold.

Skitters sweetly- with a kiss -
ethereal to my sullen-soul,
~
that phantom dance, oh the bliss;
my hopeful heart- it stole

Silver-tongued sun arose my eyes,
burdened body- cold as stone;
~
that phantom dance, oh the lies:
lost lover dreams atone.

A bit of string,
A tangle of yarn,
A trinket, harvested from the gutter;
She's searching for something special in the unwanted.
A bright eye glitters.
A talon snatches.
She flies on...

Bearing her treasures, she floats above her shattered nest
That clings, forlornly to a crooked and lifeless branch.
Her wings grow tired, yet she must complete this task;
-To make whole, what is but a semblance of haven
  -yet, it is HER nest

Lighting upon the branch, she weaves and tucks
and struggles to secure it.
She adorns it with the fruits of endless questing
And believes it into wholeness once again.
With joy, she skitters to the very heart,
Preens her feathers -opens wide her wings
And bursts forth with a heart stopping aria.
-her mating call.

Bottles of cheap bliss
drown out lugubrious sadness
replaced with bottles of ****
in this festering den of madness

at least there’s paradise in my poems
at least there’s a clean bed in my dreams
at least in those spaces I’m in your arms
at least I’m happy bathing in the moonbeam

surround by a fetid smell
with a lack of care for myself,
is my hunger even quelled
when there’s no food left on the shelf?

a roach skitters across a pile of clothes
my temporary friend that I confide in
he speaks, “Here is what I propose.
Stop thinking that you are a has been

get off your *** and clean this mess
unless you want more of my kin
stop ******* at the bottle is what I suggest
and have a little victory, a little win

you don’t have to live”

Squish

“Funny how you can survive a nuke
but not my tiny bare foot,
well you pest, there’s my rebuke
how’s it feel to be ground to soot?”

“What am I doing with my life?
Maybe the cockroach was right.”

The dragonfly
that perches on your finger,
on the wall, at the doorstep,
like still life human history,
on the page, close to the vines,
balancing atop that blue teacup,
fanning steam

as time slips, whistles, rips
like stitches twisted, which
unravelled, like a wish
you made last summer
when horses snickered, reined by
steel knights sweating and kissing
gloved hands, ladies laughing
over earl grey tea and shipped silk,
the dragonfly danced upon
melancholic waters

what is skulking in the moist darkness
must come forth and answer
how one equates infinite and none,
vain, like history, snow, and gold,
before sung poetry from the old —
to live one’s life for something, you say,
is to live one’s life alone for something

what is repeated,
wars and manipulation,
mutual destruction, human reproduction,
drilling and penetrating,
with rhythm and with force,
Is intrinsically obscene,
the mechanics ancient and ******,
beastly brutal and brutally simple –
the human wheel of time

dawn broke
over churning waters, a cycle of
chalky, foamed flowers grew and died,
quivering is the white fish washed ashore
twitching, pulsating, then stilled

the dragonfly, sensing death,
skitters away

by my face standing the next to upstairs window looks out (i can see) on the hot inch of a glowing city youth where and unyouth mingle (a cat) in a fat buzz of quiet freezing still air it looks so coyly diminutive (curls about eyes)(through next doors window) opaque and not breathing pallid sprawls tinly its tummy has groaning stretch marks(a paw)thick with amber nestled suddenly a car horn(and skitters away)

Where are you going
walking down the street
as the sun struggles
to find a reason to rise
and trash skitters along the asphalt
being blown by the winds of wonder
I wonder when you will realize
realize that the second hand
is spinning too fast
and that one day
the clocks will all break
and one night
the bottle will run empty
and the mirrors won't break
and the knife won't cut
the gun won't ****
hammer
pull
so where are you going
we all say the road less traveled
but truth be told
that road doesn't exist anymore
and truth be told
we're too lazy to raise a fist anymore
and truth be told
I don't tell the truth
I just make you believe lies
but isn't that the same thing?

Then it slammed on your skin,
right in the kisser,
the leathery wallop
ski dd in g m a d l y t h r o u g h y o u r m o u t h .
Next came the blossoming pain,
a stinging ring
where the fist made contact
and you stagger back
in a muddled shock.

It was an accident;
I was getting into it,
thumping your left,
your right hand, fury
brewing inside me from somewhere
like a bonfire beside my heart.

I kiss you where it hurts,
the tingle of your stubble
rolls along my bottom lip.
What have I done?
Did I mean to leave
another burn on your face?
You don’t even blink,
a lingering black stare
and whisper with your eyes
what was that about then?

A chuckle skitters into the night.
Thought it was nothing
but now seems it’s something.

Let’s keep going.

It can be forgotten.

You jam the glove back over my wrist
and I’m ready again,
maybe, just a maybe,
hoping that I miss.

The Blackbird skitters a song loud
across silent spaces
filling the void in a heart seemingly empty;
a poets rescue.

A lone gnat, glides to climb easily upwards against the rain, expertly dodging the drops. A tiny spider skitters onto the porch, seeking refuge from the drizzle, is joined by another, also seeking asylum. Another gnat, entombed in a clear prison, escapes it, seconds before it crashes to the earth, spraying in all directions. I'm not usually a fan of spiders, but the two that joined me are quiet enough, I'm glad they found shelter. A third spider, scurrying onto the bottom step, pauses, believing he is safe. He waits there several seconds, before a stray droplet catches him on the rear and sends him up on to the porch in a flurry of black legs. A moth tacks back and forth again the slight breeze, finding a dry corner amidst the leaves of the walnut tree. The splatters tickle my outstretched hands. The cool drops force my eyes to close, though I wish I could truly take it all in.

The poster read:

“Gone Missing”

The come-back-kid
has failed to show.
The Old Man saw him,
******* by the Rainbow Factory
wall, against the wind,
like a prayer no longer given
to the prism-surfing life.

He said,

“The come-back-kid, might
Not come back”..

He wrung his
swindled heathen, left
with haversack and Macintosh,
hummed ballad in a Sea-King crown,
the colloquy of shepherd lore.
head far too full to sing,

Caught riding
in a burnt out car of
rude December archetypes,
an engine feathered Westerling,
to think.

He went
to where they bury boats,

Where mud larks perk
for potsherd farthings,
red-shanked in the gallon slob
oblivious...

Far off the Ness
He’ll watch them go..

... on meteoric dawn patrols,
a contrast to his built-in
obsolescence.

In provinces
of platitude
He’ll form no evanescent tie,
invoke his tattooed waxwing
back against their lactic
saccharine, to beg
the notion die...

But leavened light may carry,

A bold ceramic dialect
that skitters off
the short-sun marsh

dissipates in linnet banter
winnowed from the winter barley
crossing out the county lines..


The come-back-kid
will not return,
a blue-eyed, fell, Promethean.

Disfigured by the absolute
He’ll beat his way
unrecognised.

Swift little spider
trapped by ***** bath walls
Helplessly scrambles against the edges
in a fatigue attempt at escape

In comes a giant
proportions of that of a titan
And even with size on his side
he cannot bare comfort with its presence

Filling a glass of water
drained above its clueless head
The innocent spider slides down
towards its inescapable peril

But to the giants surprise
the critter skitters along
Fighting furiously against the tides
desperately attempting to escape

Its miraculous escape
does more than just surprise
It summons irritation
and a fraction of concern

Another glass is filled
and yet another is flung
Without fail the tiny warrior
continues to battle against the odds

Glasses and glasses fly
the endless river within the air
And in all failed attempts
the arachnid continues to fight

Exhausted from the effort
a larger bucket is obtained
Flooding the entire plain
and ensuring the fighters death

It's within a sigh of relief
that realization is born
That the giant had grown so distracted by its fear
that it had not observed

The reason for the continuous efforts
the motive to never give up
Was discovered in one single glance
upon the baby left untouched

The tiny creature
left all alone
An orphan
to a world so cruel

The fault was never theirs
it was in our fear
Causing violent actions and assumptions
without observing the surroundings

All that spider wanted
was to protect its child
Not to harm anyone
but to bring their offspring to safety

Such a foul ******
for piece of mind
With opened eyes
I see that
we are the monsters.