she's gold on one side
silver on the other

heartened and free
she runs like a car wreck
racing at breakneck speed
trudging through sand to conjoin
two-fold into one.

little passes by her that goes unnoticed.

she drinks in every opportunity
to swallow what ever happening will feed her today's lesson.

equanimity hostility frivolity passivity.

she knows the streets have taught her more
than she will ever forget.

and she can remember how it felt
to taste ***** in her mouth
when she looked in the mirror
that mocked her every breath.

she tries to back step
and unmake a bed
that she's told she made
and must lie in
for the rest of her life.

she wants to call consignment
and have it undelivered
but they won't take
bug ridden
**** stained
sprung and un-stuffed
pieces of junk that carried
peoples dreams in the dark.

there's no worth, they say.

so she's left
carting around holes and dead air.

melted glass and ***** cartridges.

spent fits and broken tin.

wondering
what kind of legacy this is
for a very pretty tousle haired girl
that trusts her with unfeigned eyes
and believes in super mom?

she cries at night
and tries in the morning
being as tangible as they expect-

but in that socketed place
that holds spun sugar contemplation
she buries herself.

one two-fold parades all day
playing puppet gurrl games.

she lives in a land of
pots of gold and rainbows
clover and blue moons
moving one step at a time
towards what's expected
because she knows nothing else.

day in and day out
running like a car wreck-

gold on one side
and silver on the other.

What a vicious punk --
I'm pretty sure he lies about his age.
What's with the bow and ponytail?
Desert skin curtained by auburn,
socketed with emerald eyes.
Who does he think he's fooling?

What a deplorable. . .
I'm pretty sure his skill with a sword
is comparable to beginners.
Pillow lips protect a silver tongue.
While we work, he's in the taverns,
playing at conversation.

What a queer young man --
Even back on Jalima he ruffled
feathers on the goodly wings.
I wouldn't trust a man who would
speak, over choosing violence.
Who does he think he's fooling?

I laid out twenty-two new shining glasses.
Regal, sparkling and tall.
I took each one in hand,
a rag in the other,
and turned on the water.

Suds spooling round
up and down
whirling softly
with old hands
washing with precision.

It's three am and I stand solitary
and tired at the kitchen sink.
I keep my socketed eyes
down to the glass and suds
for fear of looking into the reflection
of the window above.

An hour drones by,
I don't notice.
Busy standing still
in the dead of night,
up and down
round and round
suds bubbling
from old hands
washing precisely.

I wash them once
I wash them twice and set them to dry.

I dry them once
I dry them twice and set them side by side.

I won't be using these, no,
the glasses are for others,
to look proper while shining and clinking
and tipping and sipping
and laughing and being happy.

Eyes down from the window,
where a haggard thing waits,
I look to the glasses,
and wash them once more.

Sail with me onto the dreamy

Blackened waters evermore

Miles from the distant shore

Another world to call our own.


Perhaps there is no planet here,

No tranquil steppe to this precipitous realm

Where the pressure aches the whole way down

Weightless of a thousand atmospheres


My brain quakes a broken stone,

Transparent eyes in no place

This etherized abyss communicates

A world embarked from the known


Deeper, deeper must we go

Through the darkened deep thorough

A gift of its own; this fathomless dome

A grounding place to guide us home


A thousand times climb below,

A million spheres by stars unknown

And yet every night in moonlit sight

I swim from shore, a stolen beau


On fog-filled days I do not see

Time comes to pass without a scene

To skip along that broken sea

And return to toiling soils


For when the weather agrees, a diving odyssey

Where I sojourn that boundless time;

With a murky message from the void that pines

To a solemn soul's menagerie


Socketed-shapes rapidly move to trace

The walls of my sailing-quarter

Eyes wide-shut in dumbstruck horror

In the darkness; my pale face


Drowning in the pitch

Dismembered hands claw for the portal

In that frozen furled, immortal

Blind fringes skitter deep-dark fish


One day into this place I will sink

And of the land cease to think

To call unto other curious souls

From that eternal deep below

sheet crumpled not
deeply thrashing
with life as a last night did
dead now dreaming
as dreaming sheets oftenly
boy with toy like
fantasies of apart joints
socketed into unsleeping
hips in the darkest of
night's dreamless deepening

The dawn has woken to its pleasure
Same as yesterday and day before
There is no sun to sing a gentle warmth
Just layers and crusts of frosts meddle
Rambling with cold and fine intentions
Same as yesterday and day before
There is no wind to ****** any sense
Just  shatters of thin ice and frozen peddles
Mumbling a worded imposition
Same as yesterday and day before
Ohh, the moon has cased its gesture
Just right at the socketed loony disposition
Same as yesterday and day before
The dawn has woken to its pleasure

Oh mirror, my dearest mirror.
Tell me of that tale once more,
Please?

"..." Says the filth-stained mirror,
Looking back at me with looks of utter
Distain.

Oh mirror, my beloved mirror.
Show me of that world you say,
Please?

"..." Says the gem-socketed mirror,
A silent judging, I can tell, and
Distaste.

Oh mirror, my enamored mirror.
Show me of those faces you shined,
Please!

"..." Says the gleaming mirror,
With an attitude akin to another,
Ingrate.