A lachrymose ebullition,
unable to be muffled by its producer,
is postulated idiosyncratic,
and erupts behind locked doors of each abode.  

Remembrance trailing each hastily inhaled sob
of each adolescent informed of responsibility,
and of how appearances are more important
than actualities,
but not the stones it chains to their feet,
nor how they must repress sentiment.

If the building blocks of Stonehenge
were to frolic and wriggle voluntarily,
what force would fight the gravity
always pressing downwards on those below,
from collapsing the entire structure?

Without convenience to focus on sentiment
the neglected portion of our humanity
congeals until it can no longer be contained,
until it metastasizes from heart to brain.

Until the bulldozer rolls through you without resistance,
to create a more scenic landscape,
or else,
a multistoried parking garage for others to leave
their possessions they do not require at the moment.

Inaudible to distracted passers-by
wrapped up in their causeries,
of the scores of their preferent Colosseum teams,
or else,
sensational stories relayed by jovial faces
from the teleprompter directly to their subconscious.

This outburst,
anticipated to reverberate only within the confines
of the relative safety of this shelter,
until the sound waves of each echo
slowly
lose
momentum.

Who could be expected to hear each cog,
slowly being worn down,
while hidden within a working machine?

When those that convince the populace
that their lament will be heard and mended
urgently cram currency into their ear canals
when their position has allowed their own
muffled cries to cease.

This begs a question from the masses.
A question, muffled, and without words.
Each raised hand stretched upwards
as the inattentive teacher ignores,
causes another hand to reach skyward.

This populace never intended for their own
whimpers to be heard,
not heard, but heeded.
While the torment of their tear filled convulsions
bulldozes through them,
not heeded, but auscultated.

Yet, these proceedings were never attended.

Not even by those same
that attempt to muffle their own ebullition
within the sound-proofed walls of the shelters
that they conceal themselves in.

Each, alone, quietly succumbs to the pressures
of waiting out
jovial sentiment with uncomfortable contentment.
Waiting,
to not exhale each murmur,
but to consume the promises they are fed
by those same whose ears are plugged with green,
until the protecting walls grow bars
and all are provided with solitary confinement.

Until it is only logic that guides the thought
that each is truly and irreversibly alone.

Until all are singled out in their struggles,
until they are uncomfortable recognizing
that they exist.

Until, separately, each attempts to smooth
their worn edges,
as to not break down the machine.
To hide the nicks that they have endured
lest they should cause,
a momentary lapse,
in productivity.

Each gear is further deformed
by this bending and contorting,
as the fear of protest causes them
to endure the pressure of warping
to try to fit a position
that they were not molded for.

Until they believe that unrepressed sentiment
has been made illegal,
and that unmuffled voices
will only cause more harm.

Yet, there are those that hear,
and heed,
and auscultate,
each muffled cry.
Each weeping convulsion,
and the pressure caused by keeping them in.

For those,
each turn they make within the machine,
is made with the sole purpose
of removing mufflers.

Until each muffled sentiment is uninhibited,
moved by the tsunami of a zeitgeist,
and ascends toward the empyrean.
Until each cultural center covered by a filter
inverts the filter's position
to collect sentiment from the base,
and send the congealed, concentrated,
neglect of humanity to the precipice.

Each syllable combining with the next,
working in unison,
as those that participate in primal dances,
to take a new form.

Not even those that release this unmuffled sentiment
know the form this conglomeration will adopt,
but it will move from one coast to the next.
A tidal wave of tears that will push
from one corner of humanity to the next,
until we again understand that it is acceptable
to feel our pain in unison.

So that we can begin to make progress
on the alterations that are necessary to the machine.
So that we are once again able to produce something,
besides awkward struggle.
So that we can stand on the highest precipice
of every unmuffled sentiment,
with unimpeded hope that one day we may relearn how
to hear, and heed, and auscultate,
happiness in unison.

All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I’d started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see;
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;
So here upon my back I’ll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked, and, after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,
And—sure enough!—I see the top!
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I ‘most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and—lo!—Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold;
Whispered to me a word whose sound
Deafened the air for worlds around,
And brought unmuffled to my ears
The gossiping of friendly spheres,
The creaking of the tented sky,
The ticking of Eternity.
I saw and heard, and knew at last
The How and Why of all things, past,
And present, and forevermore.
The Universe, cleft to the core,
Lay open to my probing sense
That, sick’ning, I would fain pluck thence
But could not,—nay! But needs must ****
At the great wound, and could not pluck
My lips away till I had drawn
All venom out.—Ah, fearful pawn!
For my omniscience paid I toll
In infinite remorse of soul.
All sin was of my sinning, all
Atoning mine, and mine the gall
Of all regret. Mine was the weight
Of every brooded wrong, the hate
That stood behind each envious ******,
Mine every greed, mine every lust.
And all the while for every grief,
Each suffering, I craved relief
With individual desire,—
Craved all in vain!  And felt fierce fire
About a thousand people crawl;
Perished with each,—then mourned for all!
A man was starving in Capri;
He moved his eyes and looked at me;
I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,
And knew his hunger as my own.
I saw at sea a great fog bank
Between two ships that struck and sank;
A thousand screams the heavens smote;
And every scream tore through my throat.
No hurt I did not feel, no death
That was not mine; mine each last breath
That, crying, met an answering cry
From the compassion that was I.
All suffering mine, and mine its rod;
Mine, pity like the pity of God.
Ah, awful weight!  Infinity
Pressed down upon the finite Me!
My anguished spirit, like a bird,
Beating against my lips I heard;
Yet lay the weight so close about
There was no room for it without.
And so beneath the weight lay I
And suffered death, but could not die.

Long had I lain thus, craving death,
When quietly the earth beneath
Gave way, and inch by inch, so great
At last had grown the crushing weight,
Into the earth I sank till I
Full six feet under ground did lie,
And sank no more,—there is no weight
Can follow here, however great.
From off my breast I felt it roll,
And as it went my tortured soul
Burst forth and fled in such a gust
That all about me swirled the dust.

Deep in the earth I rested now;
Cool is its hand upon the brow
And soft its breast beneath the head
Of one who is so gladly dead.
And all at once, and over all
The pitying rain began to fall;
I lay and heard each pattering hoof
Upon my lowly, thatched roof,
And seemed to love the sound far more
Than ever I had done before.
For rain it hath a friendly sound
To one who’s six feet underground;
And scarce the friendly voice or face:
A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come
And speak to me in my new home.
I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
How can I bear it; buried here,
While overhead the sky grows clear
And blue again after the storm?
O, multi-colored, multiform,
Beloved beauty over me,
That I shall never, never see
Again!  Spring-silver, autumn-gold,
That I shall never more behold!
Sleeping your myriad magics through,
Close-sepulchred away from you!
O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the earth!
Upset each cloud’s gigantic gourd
And let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!

I ceased; and through the breathless hush
That answered me, the far-off rush
Of herald wings came whispering
Like music down the vibrant string
Of my ascending prayer, and—crash!
Before the wild wind’s whistling lash
The startled storm-clouds reared on high
And plunged in terror down the sky,
And the big rain in one black wave
Fell from the sky and struck my grave.
I know not how such things can be;
I only know there came to me
A fragrance such as never clings
To aught save happy living things;
A sound as of some joyous elf
Singing sweet songs to please himself,
And, through and over everything,
A sense of glad awakening.
The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,
Whispering to me I could hear;
I felt the rain’s cool finger-tips
Brushed tenderly across my lips,
Laid gently on my sealed sight,
And all at once the heavy night
Fell from my eyes and I could see,—
A drenched and dripping apple-tree,
A last long line of silver rain,
A sky grown clear and blue again.
And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and ******
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell,—
I know not how such things can be!—
I breathed my soul back into me.
Ah!  Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
About the trees my arms I wound;
Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;
I raised my quivering arms on high;
I laughed and laughed into the sky,
Till at my throat a strangling sob
Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb
Sent instant tears into my eyes;
O God, I cried, no dark disguise
Can e’er hereafter hide from me
Thy radiant identity!
Thou canst not move across the grass
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,
Nor speak, however silently,
But my hushed voice will answer Thee.
I know the path that tells Thy way
Through the cool eve of every day;
God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky,—
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat—the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.

In the black of night,
one winter long ago,
the bones spoke to me
from their perch upon
a tomb.
Creaking in the cold,
and shining brightly by
the light of the moon.

“Come and speak,”
they called, but the voice
was only an echo.

I stepped forward
in the crackling snow, and
the bones leaned forth.

“It’s grown cold, and
we are lonely,” they said.

“Who are you?”

“We are the Dead,”
they replied.

Silence stretched out
across the graveyard
and snow began to wander lazily
from the heavens.

It gathered on the bones,
who did not move.
They peered down to me,
empty sockets where eyes once sat,
then dried to dust.

“What need do the dead have of visitors?”
I asked.

The skull cocked to one side,
and the gathered snow slid
from its gleaming dome.

“The Dead need and want
all those things which have
long lost meaning to the Living.
We have as much right to company,
and twice the need.  
The cold earth is also
dark, and silent.
It is there the Dead go mad.”

The snow tumbled down,
another layer upon another,
and neither of us stirred.

I watched a trickle of blood
flow from a socket of the skull,
sliding down to color its teeth
a dark crimson.

A single drop fell
from its mouth,
impacting upon the snow
at the foot of the tomb.

The dark red stain
spread across the snow
of the yard,
turning it to
a tundra of blood.

The gravestones stood high
above the bloodied freeze,
and high above them all
stood the tomb.
Sitting there,
the gleaming, bleeding,
grinning bones.

“It is there the Dead go mad,”
they repeated.

The insane screams of a thousand dead souls
pierced the silence of the night,
and the tombstones crumbled
into the snow.

The ground swelled
as if turned to a vengeful red sea,
and spat the bodies below to the surface.
A mass of bone, flesh
and dirt replaced the
snow around me.

The bones above gazed out
upon the carnage,
jaw agape.

Screaming.

Louder than ever,
unmuffled by the earth,
the bodies of the dead shrieked to the heavens.

The gray winter clouds above
turned to soot
and fell from the sky.
The full moon burst into view,
casting its cold glare
upon the horror.

The Dead writhed and shrieked,
bony fingers and heels digging
at the ground around them.
Rotting flesh fell from muscle,
muscle fell from bone.

From atop the tomb,
the bones turned back
to me, screaming
“IT IS THERE THE DEAD GO MAAAAAAD!”

The skeleton burst into dust
and rained down upon me.

And the screaming ceased.

Slowly, slowly,
the writhing bodies
grew still.

Their eyes,
cold and bright,
stared wide at the sky above.
My ears rang with their screams.
I shuddered.

The bodies recessed
back into the earth.

Soot rose back to the heavens
to cover their watchful eye.

Looking back to the tomb,
I saw the bones returned
to their perch.

But now they gazed upon me
with my own eyes.

“It is here,” they said.

And I could not look away.

“The Dead go mad,”
I answered.

Within
stirs a persistent bane

birthed
while on her Mother’s knee

Now her bones
grate against the chair
amid her rhythmic rocking
that breaks the dim silence


Images reverberate

on the back walls
of her mind

Disquietude prompts alarm

as her obsessions claw
to unearth graves

of fears

she pretends are invalid

Her desire to flee

from reminders of falsehoods

and fake passions

nags her endlessly

like unforgivable sins

haunt a cloistered sister

Neither pleas, nor prayers
quell her ruminations.

a few seconds left
a few minutes
a few hours
a few days

i'm spinning in circles,
twirling the sky,
and the dizziness decreases.

every second hand's tick echoes infinitely
echo echo
a glance, a hand-wring
I pick my nails.

Time
the departure and arrival of the present
Evolution of the future into the past.
          The grass is growing
          The surroundings groan
while i try to open my eyes
    tense with
    anticipation
    excitation

gas tank almost empty
big capital e's have never looked so attractive

Now, the doors will be unlocked,
And ripped off
And crunched, crushed,
And incinerated, obliterated.
Oh,
what a refreshing breeze
smells like sunflowers,
pomegranates,
and honey.

Let's neglect new barriers.

  I can see
the pores of time.
I'm the future
a crane, an eagle
an equal

The doorknob's key is in my hand,
An axe in the other.

All those years
of inescapable limitation to
the view from a windowsill,
they will soon be the senile, wrinkled remains
of tears, of fears, of jeers.

Soon, I will soar
Escape this world of sore
Existence at the core
Of the personalities who tore
At the pained cultivation of my soul,
Who decided it was best to close my doors,
I know, I swear, these shackles, held in the hands of unmuffled cackles,
Will disintegrate in nothing
but dust and flies to blind their eyes,
Keeping them, from once again,
Binding me into void oblivion,
I am blinded by triumphant tears,
They'll evaporate eventually,
Leaving behind puffed and swollen emotional Glory.

of some hard rock
out of snow powder
the alarm ringing in the morn
when I have had two hours shut ******* eye
I love hell out of some butterbean ****
a handful of ***
the last drop of malt liquor
the taste of that last kiss
the sound of an unmuffled
69 Mustang
red of course
drive in movie screens
old quality movie stars:
Audrey Hepburn-
Holly Golightly-
you'll always remain in my
brain

The early encroachment of
darkness arrived hand in hand
with the naked black fingers of the
tree limbs.

Those fingers married to
the unmuffled wind
which now gasped and screamed
in fits of vitality (like
some terrified animal fighting
a trap) as it scraped itself across the frigid
concrete and over
the stiff dry blades of yellow grass,
and echoed that awful moan
across each and every hard
unforgiving surface
so that it could find the window
of my dark bedroom.

My nine year old self, under covers
eyes staring at the soft edged
steely-colored ceiling shadows
of streetlight-cast venetian blind windowframe.

Tar colored shadows pooled in the crevices
between the greys
extending in feathery obsidian tentacles
like summer pond leeches.

The crying wind carries with it
a cacophony of disparate portent.

From the trainyards, the
deep dead Cello of the engines
burrowing deep into my soul
accented by the prison door slammings
of coupling cars, and the off key
bellowing of the air horns.

In the alley the clashing metal of trash collection
percussion overlaying the robotic-dinosaur call of the garbage truck.

Sirens piercing in the distance with
visions of blood and violence.

So alone, in the darkness in my mind
this lullaby of horror
Carries me into oblivion.