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.

Sketch on Self; Late June

Clearly floating in surefire struts,
is a young man
leaning back in a creaking wooden chair
outside a sandwich shop
beside all the vegetable-selling stalls.
The market sunlights
feels all the better
when all the wonderful faces
turn to look at dark-dirt born potatoes.
"$1.99/pommes de terre, tres sucré !"
A fresh stretch
into the brimming hour,
the immersed breather
carries himself on the pavement
holding between both hands
an utmost ascending burst of life.
Green park hillsides
are sown sweetly
into the woven tapestry
upon which he weaves
his stitched times of talks walks
and gliding slides of wheels
atop the longest of North-South streets.
A translation to freedom
is struck with the harmony of flickering matches
outside on walled terraces
covered by the night's hat of stars and reflected light.
In a circle of spinning tounges
he will place his phrases
alongside growing fires of conversation
Touch his shoulder,
expect that head to turn today
but at night
look for those sprawling breaths
which surely celebrate
all who dance.
Leaping between open chests,
firmly the bundled tapestry of his
will be unfurled on sunny days
where green lawns and lush simplicity
touch the tinged frays of dreamy woken-moments.

Illuminated Length

Run about the yard,
holding all our toes in a frenzy
drenched in calcium-pasted looks
delectable fire
laughing light,
as the sizzle of fat
drips and dissipates into the hallow dark.
The turning hands hold hungry eyes,
a mouth wet with peaches
fears not though
the envious hunger growing inside
when the surrounding smell is ample enough
to feed a thousand men.
I pile a mound of nourished light
precisely between both my shoulders
where my neck plunges above my chest.
This glow sits here
so all who sit and gallivant in their sweetness
may see the illuminated length
that shines over the rungs of space and vibration
standing monumentally against the stars.

Tasting the Dripping Light of Days in Laughter

A content hush took off its trousers

left its muddied socks by the lake,

and plunged deep into reflective waters

so that its very nature

may swell with the refreshing burst

held by summer and surplus sunlight.

Restless head-spins

twirl the treetops into shifting greens,

the mailbox closes as Mr. Postman drives away

a shutting motion revives a morning notion

and like the treetops

the day begins to spin away

from the kitchen to the hammock

out past a voice that soars

into the valleys

traversed by both smog and sweat.

The tones ringing out the windows

sleep in a chorus of drone

while tired bodies stretch themselves

across ruffled bedsides and on top

the painted shine of each others arms.

When the chorus echoes rise

taking the sun in both day-dreaming hands,

these eyes will peel free

to shudder and then marvel

in a foam of grass-covered hues

at the burning day and its fruits

which fall into our soft woven baskets

as the bugs taste the tiny juices

that burst forth when the fruits

splatter against the basket bottom.

Here Speaks a Waking Dream.

I stopped to write a poem and the page left itself blank. No metaphors rang out from my skull, my jaw did not open, and my eyes did not swell with tears. In white flashes of foggy laughter, running amok in sunshine, and in touches of longing did I stop in a lucid moment to bask in the sweetness of such fleeting presents. The paper did not cry for my pen, I did not yell for words, but I did ache to lay down on my side and let my memories hold me close. On the floor I fell, and surely my longing was met by the comfort of knowing that it has been these arms, these legs, this torso, and this cranium which have been the receiver of my photographic visions. Each glowing vision flows like a hushed river but also yells like a vulture; it encircles the living thinking that it has found the dead upon which it would rightly feast. The delay of sense quells a restless notion in each passing of blinding time I recall. Then in a rush of hours but in a mere burst of gracious seconds, my senses gripped my neck and chafe me till I bled dry and am but bare bones. I fell into silence, and kissed the forehead of what I saw was myself sitting deep into my own past eyes. Moments captured by a present self, bathing in the dripping thoughts of the past! Oh, how I come to curl in my bedsheets and the stone between me and prose has been moved!

Bright Flash of Years

How we speak in limbo languages!
Dumbstruck and watchful glances
raise the body's sticky heat
in midst of a tanned blind spot.
A weighted set of limbs grows ripe
upon the blisters of humming pensive gestures.
Friends born in the twinnkling eye of
finger-crossed days and head-back laughter,
the mountains in flames
are telling you to come watch the fields burn too
and let the smoke of corn
cradle the last drops
of sunlight we will taste
while our hands are not bound by blessed geography.
Leave the motor still
to let your twirling legs
twist around tree limbs
so that we may
pick the fruits of grand-girthed giants
and pull out the roots of faulty saplings
in order to plant new seeds
culled by bountiful earthen remembrance.

Blurred Lights

A burning warning
scrapes my veins
begetting inaudible tones
echoing in screaming fog
that rolls heavily along
empty corn-fields.
Our eyes fill with deep humming,
which in steaming tracks
crack in the May nocturnal reflections.
Hold tight onto this elbow
to keep watch on my flowing blood,
in the occasion that it is paralysed
by what may be a
material breach in comfort,
or
a two-tone folded cut-out
projected onto empty windows by a feeling.

Spiritual

My eyes shut themselves, and a hissing beam of white light came over me in a distinct instant. The sound of glass shattering, then waves crashing, pulsed throughout my ears. I found a rolling wheel of soft stone running on the ground. As it made its way in a dizzying circle, I caught it as it neared towards me. I picked it up for a moment, it was light and carried little density as I rested it upon my shoulders in great pride. In a dark moment, the wheel fattened itself on its own stone and grew in weight. My shoulders gave out, and the wheel did not crack as it fell to the ground but rather kept dancing as it had previously. I watched it pass as I felt the burning of my broken shoulders. I opened my eyes, then plugged my ears with my fingers and proceeded to again shut my sight-caverns. A sigh pushed through me, then a smile.

I escaped the light,
rested my head on the foaming haze
to weep for the sounds
that will never be so deeply residual.
The glow drank from my hands,
birthing its wonder from the sky.
I stopped my mouth in fear of desecrating
a flash so fragile.
How holy blood is,
when it runs throughout
a sensory touched remembrance.
A fondness so deep
ascends over my head
beyond every last inconceivable quark.
This breath
gives me a cushion,
as my weary shoulders
grow tired of stone-hewn roads
trying to pose as marvelous paths.
Shh,
treasure the gentle whir
alongside a whispering excersize in living
(I hope to be fit).

Shaking black and white photo
perfect photo portrait past mannerism
promising embrace
earth trembling shake
boundless silence;
crushing intent extant exhale
all was never met,
mercilessly
ending in mediation.

Honestly,
I cannot build a house
but I can construct great ruins
because all is borrowed
within the place of space-time
Give me a place within this fabric-
any point will do,
I shall intersect you and I
as I tear through photons
hoping to reach a fond place
by the grace of this endless circle!

If only for a hovering moment
permeating my closed eyes
I would tell the spectacle of poesy
how my bedroom appears tonight,
but that would simply
catch itself in a misunderstanding.

Liberating walk back through gravel alleyways,
wave rushing memories
quelling the loud hush
roaring at the sands of sense
illuminating the day
burying the present
touching the past
breathing back the now
timely gaze (never see)
Oh, how now
I breath deeply!

A Static Plea for a Dreamful Receiver

The clamour of rainfall befell
each mystic silence
hovering over the confounding cranium
lodged between myself and the mystical.
Now I watch from the window
the flood crawling up the darkened road
where I wholeheartedly
let my dry thoughts die
at the tip of my glimmering tongue.
Sincerity,
so sincere,
has never reached receiving ears.
If only for the sake of joy
intentions could be met
without a word
even while sitting stunned.

My dreams perplex me
beat me into the pillow,
suffocating the slightest morsel of certainty
which could cast bright boundaries within
walking day illusions of longing.

Weary of sickening notions of time,
a friend once told me
the simple days are rare.
All I replied was this;
no fell-swoop sees itself
pave golden our grand wantings.
Surly the darkened pavement
knows its own weight
only by the day,
and we only know loss
when a void burdens our sights
leaving us motionless.
It is a shame when neither
can find a word to interpret
or action to mimic.
Thus,
I am on the ground
with my cheeks puffed out
holding my breath
for a delightful receiver
if but for a moment of their doings.

A Two-Doored Edifice Hanging Over the Clouds

Subside,
you shelves of clouds
burning at your rough-hewn corners
behind the guise of milky orange glows.
Stormy vision plague the skin
like boils of an Eastern flea,
how these concrete hours
cling to the bed in rough concourse
only is striking when the day paces around
for lack of better task
or night explodes
in order to carry itself
twice around the Earth.
With a bruised neck,
poet cranks his bones to shift
towards the shore-rock sky formation
that dances in evening dance halls.
As a few thoughts gather
to play the limber weather waltz,
passive sights sit in comfortable wooden seats
fixing their shoelaces
untying the knots in their ties.
Ah, this exhale of the eyes and tongue
begins to resent itself
as the image of the ball dissolves behind time
and all the dancers grab their coats
hurling themselves out of the stores
in fear of fright.
The great sky sculptures
standing outside the hall
are so telling of these days;
quiet stone watching all them run
and letting their weary sculpted eyes tear
at the first sight of dying beloved dark.
Hollow holes in the cyclical moonlit roof
push themselves out of the rain
past immortal sunshine
into the mouths of the dead
who grab at the ankles
of the last man dancing
to a slow accordion
choking on the last notes of the riot.

As the hanging greys and blacks
heavily drifted
deep back to bursting blue and egg-yolk orange,
as it all collided with the poet's veil,
a hand lets off the last dancer's collar
and those trampled in the rush out the door
are smiling in lieu of atonement.
The dreamland ache of melancholy
has found itself captured in the
walking manifestation
in the ballroom of the reasonably absurd.

Whirling Hope

Waking up to a thirsty blue sky,
crawling with juices out the clouds
all the world rises for a call
shrouded in tone of whimpering certainty.
Many deaths mark the screen,
children shout the songs of sickness
and the poets pace back and forth
around the dirty outskirt busstops.
The stop watch on the flashing hand
is halting in its ticking steps,
the artists limp
in the city center
out of confused madness
for the forgotten murkiness
brought about by the dearly departed
dark night.

In secession of successive seconds,
the poets kiss the painters
both hoping to hold the seasons
close to their tongues
as blanketing smoke clogs the dawn
and breaks the moon into
springtime shards.

New Springtime Hum

There is no shivering
during the subtle return
marked by brushed-green fallow fields.
Prose stirs no call
as my hand breaks line
each time I try to turn
a sentence over onto
its thin lyrical belly.
On days where I utter no phrase
and my voice trembles at thoughts so lofty
an echo wakes me
into wide-arm greetings
marked by the muteness
wrought by bedside musings,
and the huming drone of bees.
My pastoral sights
do no fall or fail
even when I touch the rust
dwelling,
drowning at the bottom of the fairest local stream.
When diving into shimmering passions,
each press of flesh sinks into my forehead
as I close my eyes to dance in a painting
possibly to sing in a chorus
of notated bedsheets.
"Poet!
You speak loudly
about these passions and memory
the reoccuring absurdity of life
which our makings of matter
surely have done away with!
It all howls undoubtedly
a cry of a primitive age!"
So I have heard say
the men and women of dear contrasts and selection.
No mind to them,
for rumour has it
that they have forgotten how to dance;
the machines move for them

Rummaging betweens the lines of nostalgia and longing,
these quiet times
met by shortfalls
press my lips upward
in a seizure of remembrance
to mark the march of feet
pitter-pattering in a luscious circle.

Garden Muse

I danced the wonders of the lawn
sun inspired by
the trembling blades
leaning on all sides of me.
Through wandering heather-hung hills
gray-greased castle walls
two story buses and all,
I let my tongue and head wander
only allowing them to speak by way of
the caves crawling into my eyes.
While quietly scribbling their sights
by the callousness of hill-climbing feet,
I reside from the hardened translators
to press my fork into fried tomatoes chips and pavement
to taste the touch of a sunny day
where my back hangs alongside a willow tree.
Sticking to the follicles leaping
from the cracks in my browning skin
the city writes its rhythmic spell before me
to conger cast and curse
a belly never satisfied
with neither hunger nor feast.
While mademoiselle memory holds
her black hair back
at the edge of the road,
on a spiked iron fence
my fresh reflections reside.
I wish to climb and greet them
but the bus is leaving soon
and the young physique of the madame
will surely captivate me
taking most of the remaining minutes.
In the coffee cup bubbles below,
I can see
my own ripening face;
no need for a mirror
when I can always look there
or over to the hazy sea.
Maybe I could even gaze
at the lush lawn
in tiny Nicholson Gardens
or the royal works of botany
steps from my door.
Hang on to the bucking bull
that is greasy American life my dear!
Whether you turn your head or not,
I assure you I will soon be there
to sop up the fat
with a spire-laden Scottish sponge.
I do hope-
between cobbled alley-ways-
that along the long stretch of screaming roads
mademoiselles joy and memory
are sharing a cab
to visit my underfoot under-stairs room,
where I bide my golden time
by way of the Firth of Forth.

Leaping in a Step

Stinking skin-
tasty radiated glow harmony
bursts in shards from a
humid youth-sung instrument.
Each note
spews a wave
foaming with haunting aesthetic;
projected onto a gravitational screen
lucidly playing itself over and over
as a backdrop
amidst the tumbling of your doings
and these sun-scraped scribblings.
So, soft voice
do you know what feet tread
so breathless and daintily upon curled toes
upon a storm-licked mind
curious with the spine of the sky?
I lay dripping concious
plain and full
propelled by two-leg motor
scraping up the dirt
to flood its flesh-paneled exterior.
The glistening on my forehead
is the fruit of ripened strides,
shimmering
from unsought words
locked in the cool sublime taste
deep in the tree-top folly and breezy smiles,
all the short-comings met by
spread arms and wide backs
while the sun opens its door
as it turns towards the face of night.
As the circle greets and rejoices
I walk away
with my shadowed musings
in the wake of bubbling springtime,
whistling for a perked ear
to catch on heat-drenched paths.

Stare of Thunderstorm Days

I tend to keep orange peels
sinking into the sinews sketched into
the dark tunnel shouldered by lips.
The fragrance of browning rinds
tends to make amends with my taste
in a fit of spawned sour heat
that my collective day-dream
finds tantalizing,
no matter the caustic tongue's touch.
The mouth's helm scurries into excitement
on such open-window white-paint high rise joy
that my heds leads me to shake
in a frantic pouncing dance
that causes my breaths to be locked
amidst a red faced quietness
capturing each forward vision
in want of some sweet fruit,
no matter the melancholic roots.

Oh, to Be the Dirt

Have I not sharpened
my tongue on moss-stricken rocks
while resting my head in
the very naked day that
broke the chains
eating away at my dirty fat
as I wandered heavily
in the sweat stung strength of spring?
This gifted stanza wrought gab,
rising from folded paper wounds
screaming of shadowy names,
has battered me on my atmospheric back
closing in the curtains of a the day
like dark-dressed stage hands
about to set scene
for the most wonder-filled play of them all.
I cut the membrane in front of me
with this pointed pen
and aforementioned tonuge
to let the blood of marvels
run jagged through my eyes.
I puncture the veil
of this doomed two-eyed vision
with the sharp edges of the notebook,
and I slash and dice my limbs
to let them fall on the jeweled earth
in hope that they too
will crumble like the leaves
and become the better
part of my descriptions.

Sleep is Yelling in this One-Half Room

My sleep has been yelling.
Put this hoarse cry to rest
so I may rest my head
to do the work of a poet.
Kiss the salt turned colonnade
with the wet lips
of my genealogy.
I speak to you
night time musings,
you who touch my cheek
with a pounding chant
groaning its rhythm
in the cranial halls of my pillow.
Swirling on top of the white walls
are the lost lingering words
that never dared to paint
my automatic musings onto
the milky sweat gleaned canvas
I joyously press my hand against
on murky window evenings.
The eyes cannot close still,
this room is one-half of itself
the pages of the inky receiver
lay open and off past the white lines of roads
distant from the blanks between sentences
you stand over my passions wake
rearranging the fate of logic
so my young legs may grow
for then I may see you
even past great emerald mountains,
over battered seas of dry sleep.
With this bone cradled lighthouse in mind,
I find my away across this sea
onto a full comfort
that quells the screams of
this one-half room.

Absurdity's Grace

This is how the vision
did dare subside
in a flashing pregnant moment:

You booming shelves of clouds,
burning at your rough-hewn corners
behind the guise of milky burning light
deeply entrenched with the mist of a sublime glow
I gaze at you-
proudly freeing the instinctive infant
in times so fearfully and falsely set aside.
Stormy visions have lately plagued the skin,
boils of a pensive Eastern flea
scorn these caged hours
as the bed finds itself being the raft
amidst cancerous day-distraught times.
With a bruised neck I
crank my bones to shift
my gaze towards the seashore-grey
formation dancing in evenings halls,
as a few well-dressed thoughts gather themselves
to play the limber weather-wearers
a few festive songs.
Ah, this exhale of the eyes
begins to resent itself
as the evening image dissolves behind hills
-I tug and grab at my jacket to
hurl myself over my fright;
the great sky sculpture
(all too telling of these days)
begins to wither hopelessly
as the darkness begins to pull itself
from the rain-day's emaciated sunlight cycle.

As the heavy hanging grays and dirty pales
heavily drift
into the deep haze of blue and orange,
as it all collides
with the poet's veil,
I let my hand off my collar
breathing in a smile of
atonement
for the dreadful hauntings of melancholy
have found themselves captured in
the waking manifestation of sight.

Corps drapé au feu des éclats de la lune

Couvre-moi en feu!
Peut-être je peux allumer
le chandelier entre ton main
et le mienne.
Le jour est prêt d'exploser tranquillement...
comme un petit rêve
cyclique et plein
de l'air d'électricité .
Ma peau se salit par
les éclats du ciel;
et tienne a un gout
aux nuits sur le lit
passé comme le tableau
plus pittoresque...
Écoute-moi!
Je ne suis pas religieux
mais je prie maintenant
en chantant mon chanson aux printemps;
je prie que tu bois bien ces mots
(on connais que nous avons tous soifs).
Mais je peux pas
réciter ces mots en anglais;
désolé...
mon langue arrêtera
au première mot
je suis certain de ça.
Même-si tu ne comprends pas
les lettres entre ces phrases français,
tu peux glisser sur la glace
aux fenêtres du bâtiment
des mes sentiments.
Aux mes yeux,
je peux te montrer
ce que je veux dire
mais personne n'a pas cette patience
dans notre ère.
Alors...
lis ce que j'écris!
Lis les lignes frémissement
dans mon voix.
Je jette mes espères au nuit
mais heureusement pour moi,
tu y vis
à côté de la lune,
poussant mes lèvres
avant les tiennes.

Brief Statement for a Bed Too Big

The laughter I want to see inside
cannot be forced from the faucet like water.
In the next breath
the effort will be there.
Pumping from the well
the joy locked inside the crags;
deep beneath the bedrock
within the fabric of the sheets
among the lofty heights of the
cycle of day.
All the air taken
will try not to be thrown back out
into the void of a lost body.
Fading into the A.M.
here is a roar in an envelope
a raucous laugh
or a sigh too loud to be contained
nonetheless here it is
on the dusty desk I keep.

Rest will not come easy
as long as these sighs choke,
and sure enough tonight
I do not breathe from my mouth.

With my breathe lost,
I aimlessly gasp
and roll around the dirtied sheets
soiled from days of taciturn dreams
and roll I must
flattening today's dough
for tomorrow's bread.
Tomorrow morning
I will awake hungry.

Hope in Morning

Each night as sleep
catches way onto my vessel
as it slinks away from harbor,
the birds' calls sound pas and dance
around my windows and shades
framing the panes with harmonious aches
of world weary breezes and eyes-shut distances.
I am finding a chirp
amidst the twilight roar
that is choking the new dawn,
cutting its throat and spilling the blood
onto deep carpets of dark.
Song of my slumber,
this echo of a chorus,
may you continue on your narrow path
paved with bright melodies
while I continue to drink
the velvet syrup inside my head.

Harmony of Two Flesh Covered Lands

Swallow me in a hurling backlash
of ox-driven madness
pushing the dirt in my brain
to hearty crops of a
sun soaked heart.
But the frost has not yet subsided
"and your dear hands can not yet
pick flowers from this field"
so speaks the season.
The budding floral spectacle
soon will rise
side by side, I wish,
among my dutiful fields.
I lay in patience and in good comfort
under the leafless tree
the page-full notebook
the touched pillow,
ready to breathe deep
the melodious aria
penned by springtime
wherein you will arise
from the tremolo of March,
as a bursting chrysanthemum.

If It Were All a Cycle

Whirlwind comma placer,
sleep well tonight and let your
tired head come crashing down
upon my sentiments' wild grace
-let these be your pillowtop and bedspread.
I can only give my wishes and intentions
a bit of passion,
and these few reasons
held between the cracks running
across my hands
-after all I am only a sum of events
a photo of a portrait of moustachioed relatives
and a stargazer.
Seeing as how you are in motion
I have come to terms
that I too am a blur.
Eyes closed shimmering laugh
-it rings within my head
leaving the echo of splendid voice
playing back the song of
a warm inception.
And if that Ubermensch was right,
it will forever be ringing
eternally reoccuring
for the sake of my passion
and the weight on this life's shoulders.
If a demon were to rise
beneath my bed tonight
and tell me each moment
will play itself over and over
as time stretches its fabric
I would not strangle the creature
but pet its head
thinking of the constant laughter
hitting the back of my skull.

Atomic Caricature

Tugging the corners of the horizon
-new morning pulls its woollen façade
over the face of omniscient twilight
as the man in the moon is off painting
my portrait atop a nebula canvas.

Down below on the muddy ground
I ready the back of my throat
in preparation to promisingly greet
the whirlwind piece of art HELLO BONJOUR
venturing from the dark photon velvet
cut around an unseemly gravitational frame.

The hand of a god is teasing me
covering my portrait with a hazy vale
thick with liquid light and smoky skylines.
I see the canvas
marked with swirling photons
pushing themselves up and down
flashing back and forth
leaving me to bask in
what half of myself is lightly planted
on the gritty ground.

Then the image fades
leaving the weight of my body
and a foggy atomic caricature in my head.

Farewell but with no sorrow
-in this exhalation
I speak to the flailing thread
hanging as I push
my feet forward onto a
sand choked shore where
the salt spray tastes sweet
but the touch of the tongue
is not fooled by the waters' bitter rush
as a wave pours its life into the throat
cutting short a breath
cuing the senses
to rush and dance and fornicate in a mutiny
of delight and excitement
and warning.
Just like centuries before
the moon wanes
and I can see the portrait
hanging in the halls of a crater.

"STOP YOUR MELANCHOLY SIGHS
I ASSURE YOU THERE IS ENOUGH
ROOM ON THIS CANVAS
FOR ME TO PAINT A LANDSCAPE
OR A BEDSIDE BESIDE YOU
LET ME CUT YOUR VEINS
NO MATTER THAT YOUR BLACK BLOOD
WILL LAND ON THE SHORE
IT WILL BE WASHED AWAY
BY THE SEA"
Said the star dwelling lips
of the artist at large.
I held out my arm
a sharp slice of my flesh
fell onto my feet
and out poured my breath
out flowed the black blood
it followed the red and black streaks
of twenty-first century bile
into the sea
to be swallowed by the pounding surf
to be tasted in the back of my throat
when my own portrait falls on me
and I land face first into the tide.

Snowy Feathers

Under an ice patched cloudy cover
I have been waiting on the leaves
to come from their slumber;
the morning is here after all.
The gray daylight does not vex me,
its snowy sons bring a soft reflection
which gives the gift of winter
a shining wrapping,
but deep inside me and the frost
I hear sunshine tapping.
I glide through the light of melancholy
so quickly I catch the wind and call it joy,
for its sweet taste cannot be mistaken
even under the damaged brown branches
sleeping for the grace of the forecast.
Though I will smile for the comfort of
falling onto the softened ground
yet the basking glow of flowering light
will show the lines in my skin
that I can follow to my eyes
and from there I can lift my head
to stare into the noon time blue egg
from which the heat and
days of wandering youth come forth,
flying away as the river freezes over
but never afraid to perch on the snow
if it must.

Star Conjecture

Sifting on an unbroken membrane,
already you can hear the crunch
that will emanate as your feet
tread and break a path
sure to displease your aesthetic eye.
Branches speak as silhouettes
deep into the twilight scenes of January
in the realms of hanging ice
smoking breath and tundra bellows.
Floating a tiny toy ship onto
the clouds passing by the magnetic rock
slowly reveals the night for the dark morning
it hides itself as,
and in the stomach of winter
you can hear the churning organs
all around the belly of the season;
branches playing on an untouched white sheet
conjuring the images of the stars hanging above.

Cairo Collect Call

The air is hanging heavy
over the Nile
as fists rise above heavy handed rule
as soldiers put down their guns
to pick up small children atop their tanks.
Heavy eyes watch from either side
sitting at tables tapping on the tops
chewing their pens
watching the television anxiously
with fingers on buttons
fingers on phones
eyes on the people.

The dog is biting back now
its leash is off and the other neighborhood dogs
shake off their collars
the rest wait till their owners
look the other way,
but the cats they stand with their tails curled
their hairs static in the electric air
as the neighborhood dogs run off their leashes
free to roam
away from the masters smack of
his bloody back hand.

Smoke rises above the delta
passing from the up-downstream
into the big bowl of salty marble water
which carries into the tumultuous waves
that sending the burning flotsam of the Nile
onto wild shores,
immediately burning out as the fire
hits the doors of the
TV stations and viewers' homes.

A Breath for Brief Intervals

Pause
do not take more than you receive
spend just a moment to breathe
watch the sliding shapes shift past
for a second let down the mast
feel the wind sail alongside your shoulder
watch the tip of the fire before you see it smolder
keeping hugging her close because you know someday
you may never again hold her.
Sit on the park bench for the rest of the night
your youthful smile will still be there
but under the weight of a young adult with many a care
remember the summer sunset
because of your scattered memory you are sure to forget
gaze out at the wild field behind the house
before an opposing edifice rises to break the back of every leaf and mouse
spend each fruitful night even eating the skin
do not forget that toothy grin
for it too is part of a whole
give back what you borrowed and burn what you stole.
It will all be gone too soon
so in the meantime dance and then croon
let your voice dance in another
let your dreams bleed into your sister and brother.


A limber body called life rouses from its bed
so dry your eyes and only cry once for what you know is dead
gold weighted ships line the shore
you will send them to their paths and make them for what they're for
While pointing out places on the map
avoid the thankless trap
of letting the wind blow by
without stopping to hear its passively delightful cry.

Bard of the Dark

Burning holes through in the photos
where two portals would dip into
an upright cranium
emanate shining youth and passion
which we will all lose
gain and watch the cycle
play itself again.
Sounds and movements to bring to life
an outstretched dancing hope;
caught between ourselves and the thin membrane
that keeps our hands
from feeling what really
lies in the dark.

Tumbling Columns and Lonely Bas-Reliefs

Lay to rest the suckling baby
gnawing at history's teat
at the bed of red rocked ruins,
swept by the sand
sprawled across the continents
like a hazy blanket
that stings my eyes.
Doomed,
is the child to grow old
and crumble the statues
so delicately placed beneath its
smooth feet.
Its mother is blind,
father deaf
and his vision struck with
sights of melancholy
veins pumping round cells of passion.

Save the dangling baby!
He hangs by coarse cloth threads
from a worn Doric remnants
lost and sought by centuries of sticks in sand
and chariot cars side by side.
Or watch him fall!
Some say to not let his toothless smile
fool the eye of the moral innocence inside
for the child
(so they say)
is a dirty old man
mad and too muddled with
five thousand years of plague.

The Passionate Machine

Adjourning from the splashing oil,
burnt hands
and heavy eyes
I come to the paper to breath
rather than blow my nose.
For even though the cold has beget a cold
my lungs do not breath heavy
as now I can breath freely
with a blank sheet
to fill with the maladies
beget by a hand that shakes,
waiting for the pen to fill
its space;
even when filled
with the promise of standing rigid tomorrow
like a tree cutting its own branches
so the machine can only
sputter at its trunk
in a fit of motionless excess.

Weight of Dust

Pulsing in the back of a long chain
the weight of memory
brings me to a silence
leading my eyes
back to the pinpoint figure
standing with arms at the side.
Memory fail me now
I may plead but
streaming film of days past
leaves me pushing over
the jagged rock in front of me.
Watching a video
back and forth;
the stains of a sepia summer haze
I blush to match the warm red colors
in every sunset wherein I recall a shadow.
Comfortable on the same two feet
facing forward between the grass and
an unfortunate entanglement
I have stared straight at before.
It pleases the dust on the edges
entangling the corners of this
weightless chain
to blow off the small pieces of
the dirt left by the heat emblazoned season
Weightless maybe,
but dust does carry its own burden
when a cough pushes its way
out of my mouth and into the air.

Smoke into the Horizon

Carrying my mind off to the coast,
moss covered and shell struck
in the midst of a misty cover
bound to blanket me with a comfort
even far from my bed behind
that white creaking door.
A sweet face with little
lines that run around the edges of the eyes
may be what I need,
dreaming up dances in my mind
searching for a figure to
put into a cloud shrouded picture frame.
To amuse the idle conscious pauses
makes for melancholy that lifts
my lips and pushes
the tips of my teeth
to break forth a hissing sigh
which is sure to float away into the moonlight
like smoke into the horizon.