Behind the Cracks

A blank haze flashed, and layer upon layer it tiled itself over the creeping static. The swell of vacant lots was bursting all the fences’ chain links. «Acme», read the side of the truck. Amongst the graffiti and rubble, my eyes were nonetheless fixed on the fading supermarket truck’s sign. It did not even take a touch to know that the truck was rotting; the white paint was sickly even when perched between tired cherry-red warehouses and pale dirt. So seemlessly did my gaze avert when I managed to cull pastoral memories from the depths of memory. A slight run of the finger across my skin could tell me that neither here nor there was a sanctuary disconnected from salty grit. Four stars were shining, and the jaundice halo carpeting the circumfrence of the sky certainly made me fall into laugther. Thus, I shrouded myself in the seeds of our fruitful conrete, stone, and steel endeavors. Grass still grows among the cracks in the sidewalks, and plastic bags dance on broken telephone wires like two squirrels chasing each other up the side of a maple tree.

Redeeming Cloud

The echos of inverted falling
scream tightly into the vein of pulsing blood,
as flesh curates flesh
until each is in awe of promiximity’s absurdity.
Whistle the wonder of beating light,
may reds and greens be the delights to live
inside the fractured pieces of daytime
which play back on the drapes of your eyelids.
Hold now quivering fingers,
so unsteady from the rhythm
purling inside all our chests.
Exhale the fumes of whirling hips;
let the smoke cloud
rise to the rafters
so we may all look at
the redeeming cloud
exultantly crafted by instinct.

The Wind is Always Traveling

Wind burns in crippled silence,
its howl ekes out all our names
digging ditches of which to play a child’s game
between the dark and light
balancing a reposed spite
that is paved on the bottom of waterfalls
so melodious in the fall like the owls’ baritone calls.
Down in the world’s recesses are a violence,
its scream knows the corner of every man and dame
however it is not violence of which to blame
but those who cast shades in nocturnal shroud
who dare walk in the midst of a moral cloud
that is paved onto our conscious and each downfall
as we watch decisions cover the landscape like humane sprawl,
the horizon is known to all souls wild and tame
yet it is not inherent confusion to put in shame
as not only or our ears which hear a voice so piercing and loud;
seeing as how a part of the body’s whole is so well endowed
with the melancholy gift of woken sense.

Night rises from the ground,
the static starts to rub and makes a sound.
Orange friscalating dust
settles itself on a fragile bust
beating along with the bosom’s beat
sending chills into all wanderer’s feet
for it is they who walk
who have known in these times to not talk.
For a word may spoil
years of an imperative toil,
so may the balance of decision
be met in imminent judgement with utmost precision.

The Art of Shaking Dusk

Rich labrynths sear their sealed lips
among the perched shelves of such
a well-worked widdling craft as mine.
I pull my tongue
to slither through the cracks of teeth
so that all under the fog
know what their first steps entail,
such is the calling of sweet words
when I am the rich soul
stepping foot on the untreaden ground.
Perch yourself high on veering tree limbs
to peer onto the pages;
if a branch were to break
bite your tongue so it may bleed
to leave a streak of your passive screams
on the bark.
I gobble like a wolf,
then cradle my words,
like a mother's young,
after a few strokes of saturated illumination.
Watch this foray of falling climbs and straining muscles;
surely art was meant to for those who danced.
Come then when you please,
to press your newfound leaves
vein-first piled high onto the lines of parchment
that play the pavement like a harp,
echoing wild songs of our high-head stares.

Cargo

Hear the one echo of a rolling silver tide,
that moon who rumbles in ghost-voices
trembling from the might of youth footsteps.
Those who walk in these steps of sand
will know the sweetness of salt
as the waves hit their feet
to drag their tracks
into the dark reaches of the ocean;
never truly gone
but to a great whole.
By the beach of summer nights,
an island holds memory in its arms
as I lay to rest on its shoulders
waking with the waves in my mouth,
gazing listlessly into the shoreline.

Clarity at Dawn

Hear the one echo of a rolling silver tide,
that moon who rumbles in ghost-voices
trembling from the might of youth footsteps.
Those who walk in these steps of sand
will know the sweetness of salt
as the waves hit their feet
to drag their tracks
into the dark reaches of the ocean;
never truly gone
but to a great whole.
By the beach of summer nights,
an island holds me in its arms
as I lay to rest on its shoulders
waking with the waves in my mouth
as I gaze upon the shore.

Lusty Skies

Today I crawled out of bed with a cloud.
Frankly,
it was her who woke me.
The puffing swirls
brushed over my cheek
as I turned to push the sheets
past my restless legs.
This touch resounded;
culling such a tender cylce
that strands itself in an eternal second
suspended only by the beauty of a moment
free to move in memory
and live forever in its one-time glory.
Startled and shaking
I lifted my head,
placing my hands behind me
so that I may survey
what billowy wonder wakes me
out of such a bedside residence.
She rolls over me now,
those ribs of mine
did not drop with her weight.
Hovering breezes swept me instead,
no weight was to be known of this woman
who swims in grey pools
-and on summer days as such,
the deep azul clarity
awaiting outside the window.
The wondrous floating woman
meant to speak to me,
but her breezes told no tales
except for a cooling hush
which keeps me dancing on summer’s streets
until I must sing to the mistress of autumn.
Even when that red and orange clad mistress
clasps her hands on my shoulders,
and gently bites my ear
my hips will still be in the reach
of a lusty dog-day sky.