THE bed a crime scene of sorts
a passion spilled in sweat
willingly i go – to my death
he comes to me in the night
a sword sharpened by lust
and thrusts it into my soul
mother, i’m ready to come home
but the line between pain & pleasure
is small compared to the pleasant death
the coroner will say an untimely passing
but my murderous lover knew the timing
each plunge of his knife ever deeper
— // —
THE embryo’s skinny fists reach the skies
and hides a face yet born
in this summer of burning children you
call a name and the world is asleep.
the fitful swings the stuffed animals
the tired friends called warm winds
have long thoughts of buried snakes
and within the many undreamed thoughts
of a lost world the embryo’s skinny fists
tear the skies apart — the revelation
of new nails grown for 2 months that never
had a drink of the blood you spilled //
some hang their hand and drown within fear
yet, and, with unborn eyes very open, to pretend
a gently passed hand over a baby’s head —
THIN new hair that does not die, long nails
within a soft chest — licking the bloodless
wounds of survival.
The sound of the surgeon’s scalpel.
:: 06.20.2020 ::
DRESSED within your black frock coat
darkly lecturing among the dead flayed
and white faced interns — next to tunnel railing
with white cuffed sleeves sketching a prose unknown
and Dr. Franklin West studiously taking notes
— the operation upon a dead body has no mouth
the conservative operation
for osteomyelitis /and amputation out of question;
an advance sight for its time — prevention of
infection is seen.
:: 06.19.2020 ::
THAT when mountains move as rivers
reverse their course
The smell of
the s u n ‘ s l i g h t
The mighty devourer of insatiable hunger
n e a r !
And economies, sweet industries of Hope and Deliverance
is the name known by many
|| send me to oblivion where the soul never begs — ‘sometimes’ is always
winning over ‘always’ even though (mostly) things of great concern are
never present / living on the outside but dying on the inside \ i climb
upon my silver cord and find a place to hide ||
seasons are nature’s Living Kaleidoscope
the colors absorb the shadows
:: 02.04.2020 ::
along the shorest road ever (a treacherous journey) an opening appeared before me;
bright equations bleeding time squished all memory of what i was i am or might be–
A preponderance of suddenly)meets the long Shaman of My Thoughts. i lassoed upon
a moat of dust (cherubs swinging cherubs singing) & road myself)not that way(toward
a whole certain corner )_and touched mySelf searched mySelf…forget mySelf when i
think of who many broken Kewpie dolls cry silently foreverfully and mySelf and
myHeart and mySoul invent grand ideas of an Enormous Language
that touches all hearts.
:: 02.07.08 ::
WITH thin fingers
(my love) who knows
worlds of than great;
a summer’s glint
more as eyes, love
as a disguise unknown
were victories nameless
beside their glories
Stood cold so damp
inside my youth i
sang dreams penetrating
space over time
washed away all glint
of light within my mind
Well, we dare — escaping
alive silentness gods
to kiss “most beautiful
o most beautiful” hearts
her, my life, as liars
kill their kind.
:: 01-24-2019 ::
I am not the i of the world.
The days of life did some thing
that my self does not approve.
Their veiled eyes lie —
of no light that i (me of me)
hide my face within the dream;
Now the world is alone.
Does it still exist?
For no other reason than
pain it may but then not me.
Most have gone this way;
all met with rage, with
caged souls, beside humanity
isn’t that their most?
A dirty word: hello.
A nerdy bird: i feel stupid.
as if accused.
Life offers gifts
blessed are the meek.
but not for you.
Not for me.
i am not the i of the world.
:: 01-23-2019 ::
TWO inches deep within grass
prolonged but not old
There i can find, as old as
Victorian Letters, the days
of all my dreams, a breath
away from Death but held
as the Silver Legend of Life.
Orbicular seas of blue and white
soaring bird dots and breeze
the moment takes me to another
life that’s wide and timeless.
So i am as the moment frozen
held within my heart —
passion-glow embraced of one
who lives deep within the
Spirit’s roots kissed.
no dream dreamt no song sang
no rain ranged among
The Paradise of Silver Legend.
:: 01-23-2019 ::
There as still and quiet as dead.
The walls had grown used to the scene. The dreams tired of the same actors with different faces.
The dead take care of their own.
The corpse lit the room’s lamp and in the gray dark began to work.
It bathed the perpetually sleeping body that lay in bed. Trimmed the hair and applied blush to it’s cheeks.
The sleeping know nothing of the awakened world; the dead know nothing of the sleeping but that they sleep the deepest of all. Dripping, the legs were dried.
The sleeper’s eyes opened.
The corpse closed them with the coldest of fingers.
Placing the stiff scrub brush upon the nightstand the corpse was pleased with the Sleeper.
:: 01-15-2019 ::