To Be Struck, the Branch Marred by Lightning

A day tips the scales,
is the fat baby in the hand of the doctor
who says to the pressed white sheet mother
"The little one is certainly big
for his age, now is he not?"
when pockets are empty and those long stares
are gone and its as if the mirror
has been shattered to leave a beautiful
scattered scene across waning
numbers on the calendar, clock,
receipt, computer,
dream.
Yet off in the world,
some pin point dot
far from the torn flesh
and blood tipped glass
a young man laughs with his hands
raised in the naked, liberated air.
His days are the sum of only
a present push in the brain,
some sudden sense or passion that pushes
one along from one memory to the next ,
to a pleasant forgetfulness.

When the lights turn off
(closing time is coming soon,
always approaching!)
and the crowd has gone home
(they must have homes,
surely they must!)
when the bottles are dry
(the mouths are vacuums,
heated slimy vacuums!)
he will know this
better than before;
but no need to tap him on the shoulder
as he stands on his stool.
No need to let him fall while
he stands so tall and glorious,
for it is a sight to see
even while on the
glass covered pavement.

Stained Night Sound

Hey long shot-gone to shit- green pools
come take me to swoon,
dance in swaying melodies
the constant sting of beat
bouncing between my toes.
"Bite my nails and look in the eyes
close that mouth and hold the
heart back in your chest!"
My,
how the sidewalk's cracks have grown
to calls and sighs that
pass by me like
a gentle zephyr's promise;
all bathed in the other Greek fire
of lines and staffs
perched against strings and
gently pressed lips.

Wondrous Nothing

Branching veins stretching under elastic skin
to fit the external cause
that the blood sees best
for the cold months ahead.
Fluttering into the wind and across
the canvas all paint onto
is the hair that yearns to
lie between warm sheets
amongst two firm and delicate hands.
Outstretched legs lead further to
a path unseen.
No, it is not an uncertainty marred road
rather a beautiful nothing
that may find itself
crossing across
a love tinged sound
in November-stung ears.