Hello there
familiar stranger...

Between the waking hours
and persistent unsleep,

you’re still
as much as the chaos
in my head then
as you are now.

it upsets me
to believe that unreal reality
of false hopes and shattered beliefs
which feel ike a million tingling shards
of the sky
with skimming winds and racing clouds
in shapes of gigantic tree heads
and endearing treepies

it disturbs me sometimes
and i unsleep in nights
looking out into the umbra
of a reality which feels crazed
and the cricket's song
understands my heart my soul
and my sad despair
a longing for an experience
which is gone forever
and shall return
but only as a memory overcast by false belief

your *** is like ****
(i think) and the backs of your knees
are like
i think. very nice to be inside of

i would you,

do you think too?

your lips and perhaps?

i would like oh dear to fit
like rain fits in April;
very wet and strictly.

oh dear and to eat you tinly i would hurt myself
with the hardness of earth. i would climb
into your fist very stiffly a flower. andear,
i would lay a hand against your unmeeting(
i would enter the primness of your heap
A mountain of unsleep. ) andear

i think you,

(do you think tooo)?

My breath caught, frozen in July
Summer's heat, couldn't draw near
Such was the sight, broken before me

Crouching, ******* the earth
The town broken, lay before me
Radiated in charcoal end, smoking embers

Centered around, spoked out
Once standing proud, a church
Only its brass cross now, tombstoned

Precious packaged, I circled
Searching for life, not charred remains
Either eluded me, ash rained

I crept, grey cloaked and hidden
Strange stories, whispered on mens lips
In homes lit brighter, the night seemed darker

Far East, something had risen
Had cast of ill formed shells, shrugged
Minds and bodies, bent strange

My destination, unsurvived
This brimstone eruption, complete
Little but a frame, withered home

Sifting through wreckage, human and debris
The hand was there, stiff and curled
Wearing the ring, but not a ring

Sawn, not touched
The hand, with me
As well, the ring

In its place, less burdened
The package, placed
Payment for, left handed thief

Spending moments, no less
I sought the church, devoid of life
Additional promise, hidden away

It's timber splintered, crushing
Burned from within, cries on the wind
Its doors had been barred, broken in

Protecting souls, blacken, wooden and thin
Strange symbols, golden jeweled, silver skinned
The Hanging God, crucified and crowned

Such as gods may, none were saved
Children, babies and mothers alike
All tortured by flame, fire

Treasure, reburied in hold
Leather bound, and square
And the thief, hand ring

I redonned cloak, boot and stick
Wrapped in grey, clinging to shadow
With twightlite falling, sped foot

Far from this place, burned to soot
Too many human, blooded and torn
But most haste, those dead and unhuman

I watched close the shadowed, deep
Fearing to be followed, more; unsleep
Seeking to deliver unholy, but my soul keep

The way a Thing Unravels is the Art of its brutal hum.
It demands a hurdy gurdy where a fife would do…
and all the mimzy of our virtues
at a glance.

It continues without stop charms and long are the hours
of our displaced events. the way you come apart too much
where the threads are apparently frayed but the sweater
is apparently snow.
Poetry Is This.

II

a sleeping vine goading pavilions
of absolute UnSleep.
a Narrow escape
where a Thought
is True.

A Me and You.
Doing the Nothing
That our Something
had removed.
on purpose.

There is still the rocking of
decisions amidst the myriad
daily tasks of which the
true label’s my conversation .

If Macbeth is the analogy
du jure no doubt the
witches will once again
sing the single syllable
their vocabulary utters.

I toil while the firelight remains.
The maps of my skin are
particular, I choose you.

Skies clear deep blue ever
present in the unsleep
washing over the signature’s
toes, I go on.  The petty
pace of time like the
seasons regurgitating

****** reasons goes on.


Never before has the
changed Bible paused in
it's slouching toward
Bethlehem.

“I have seen the eternal
footman snicker

and in short,
       I was afraid.”


Caroline Shank.        T.S.Eliot
10.22.2024.               Shakespeare