this crisis is
just like that one.
a routine of epochs.

it raises the hair
on the arm and
neck. it chills the
room. it breaks
the neck and back.
it stiffens the marrow.

it follows a trail,
the trail
of wounded
knees
and tears.

it is a march,
unending, beyond the
trees and plains.
into and through
exhaustion. beyond the
end of this world and
the end of
all their worlds.

it is a death
a death that keeps
on giving
into all the
generations.
into the rivers
and valleys,
into all those amber
golden, godless
sunsets.

i keep falling
in over and over
even though
i'm expected to
be someone else
and do something
else
something less idle
i have shaken
the devil's hand
and perhaps
forsaken my soul
and now
i feel i'm owed
and for that
feeling i'm choked
with and by guilt
i lose my grip
almost every
sunday evening
my chest heaves
and crumples
and heaves again
a little weaker
a little shorter
a little shallower
i present these things
i concoct to your
blind ears and eyes
i strive to break
your heart to see
the tears and the
blood bubble and flow
but all you do
is laugh and smirk
rolling your eyes
and sighing
exasperatedly
grow up, you mutter
be less strange
you wish

on the way home
i saw two buzzards
eating a cat
cold and wet
a crushing of
the spirits
let us commence
in the abandoning
of all hope

i am the last burning
tree in the forest
i am equanimity turned
to pitch and tar
i am the minutiae of
the incremental shift
for these are not ghosts
these are just things
left undone
in this short and
indivisible interval
allotted to that
burning synapse
that constitutes
the i in this and
all other reveries

the shadows
lengthen from the
stygian corner
to my outstretched
hand reposed,
between the
jaws of
the wolf,
delicately on its
quivering tongue
with fangs
clinking and
gleaming,
slavering with
devastation and
with this and
in this
salivating sickness
i scour the
heavens and the
depths in that
forever disconsolate
light to clip
the devil's antlers
to wail and beseech.
but nay!

he will not
lay them aside.

i hear the ghosts of trees,
of this and
that world dissolving
into the night.
in the whispering darkness
the lights click on
humming and buzzing with
the blue electric arc
they shine for
no one,
now,
they shine on
no thing.

this is
the one,
until the next one.

in a field
of wild flowers
emblazoned in
white
violets and
pale golds,
all with names
but i do not
know them,
beneath the
rumbling clouds
and thunderous
winds they whisper
to me - how
is it
that
you
are still
standing? -
and we crane
and scan the
darkened dome
above us for
just a single ray
- a single one -
of pure and smiling
light to pink
the caliginous
gloom. gasping
at the threatening
darkness while
the bones of
our soi disant
saints
and kings
liquefy to
spite
and pitch.

and in the glow
of the easy
and pure -
you will forget
the words of
things -
catching the dust
of stars
and suns in your
swimming eyes

the fix
is in.
was in.
the scheme
worked out
way before
you learned
sit up
and gaze,
learned
to punch
a clock
or discern things
decent and indecent.
surrender the
remnants.
dance without
rhythm or joy.
rending a heart
with feigned
tragedy and
a slow
but persistent
dissolution.
this we've come
to call
iniquity,
measured and
recorded throughout
millennia.

they lie there,
some scattered,
some stacked neatly
waiting and fading
from memory
the promises
and responsibilities
self inflicted and
imposed,
competing with
the more real ones.
they require courage
and demand attention,
a daedal mastery
of the hand, heart,
and brain.
they bare their teeth
in anger
and frustration
they demand to know,
in pre dawn hours,
why it is that they
are there, ignored.
and in response
to your unsatisfactory
answer, they break
your heart.

tonight i slept
and while sleeping
i dreamt
and while dreaming
i felt and ideated
i was forgiven.
it was a dream
usurping actuality,
pure and enormous
in its suasion.

alack, I awoke
with a sudden
start and for no
good reason
into the consummation
that indeed I was
not forgiven
but rather
forgotten.

in madness
i am chasing,
chasing,
chasing you
or something
like you.
forlorn and
devoid of
hope. i've
eradicated
the sleep
from my nights
in an effort
to gain on you,
on it,
on them.
but all that
has done is
shortened
my days
and filled
them with
stubby little
hours,
shaken and
dirty and
amounting to
not much
of anything.

in those
late hours
of night
when that
sound deep
in my skull,
vivid,
crisp,
and precise,
of splintering
bone
reverberates,
cascading down
the spine

i swear
it is like
ancient forests
falling down.
like mountains
giving up
and sliding
down into
the seas.

i've crossed the valleys
and you crossed yourself
as i approached.
the sparrows gasped,
now short of breath
like these dying days,
wheezing with the
wester winds and trees.
like the flowers
i brought you
that you cast aside,
all the stars thrown
into the mud, their
brilliance pusillanimous
and abnegated.
i am weakened by
your eyes like dusk
and gelid blizzards,
pacing like wolves
with eyes
resemblant diamonds,
auriferous and
scintillating in
the moonlight.

the sun screeches
up upon the sky
like hyenas drunk
on blood and murder.
i search for your
house to set it
ablaze. i am a
broken, clumsy
beast. trundling
off the precipice
i am falling.
falling hard
and fast.
falling off
the face of
the earth.

the grains of salt
that you discard,
they are measurable
by length and width
and height.
they too have a
dimension and
once a purpose.

we are
the eaters of bees
with our
swollen guts and
distended bowels,
strung out
on the sweetness
we search
for the adjuvant,
the honey,
for the miracle
of healing
and wellness.
we are
the bee eaters,
belligerent and
entitled.
in our ignorance,
for that sweet
elixir is not
found in the
belly of the bee
but rather
elsewhere.

i think my biggest problem
is envy. it is a stink
not easily gotten rid of.
it is petty and shitty
and ugly to look at.
it infects with an
overwhelming urge to
ignore it and deny
its foul presence
but it's there
poisoning the water
in my wishing well.

from here
i can see
for miles
and miles.
the rumpled
landscape
blown away
to dust
at the edges
and the days
seem to be all
short of
breath.
the ache
of the trees
and the birds
rattling through
my bones
and i pull
the dusky shroud
over my head
and around
my shoulders.
you look bemused
as you watch
me clamber up
those shorn hills
in search of
forgiveness.

and you smile
lightly, knowingly.
your heart ebbing
because every time
it is the same,
at first
the pain is
unbearable
and you are
convinced that
you will not
survive it.
that it is
an impossibility.
but then you
start to
crave it
and then
you start to
inflict
it.

i awake,
my blood
coagulated
and thick,
ebbs through
constricted
capillaries in
sluggish waves.

the chill creeps
its way along
the furs
and blankets
searching for
exposed flesh
to touch
or maybe
kill.

the light
in its recent
but perpetual
dimness struggles
through and into
the tented
dwelling,
and outside the
beasts gather.

with hoof
and horn
claw and
fang

i am no longer
welcome here.
my actions,
our actions,
have forced them
and the only gift
they offer
is vengeance.

motionless i wait,
my bleared sight
focused on upward,
into the thin light.
my hearing almost
useless barley
aware of their
panting.
my flesh
only knows
the frost.

i lay and
wait for
the generosity
of their gift.