the wolf drawing crimson
from the throat of a unicorn

its beastly eyes glazed
with fear and death

you hold nothing in
your burning hand

but the ruins
of your fingertips

the stench of mercy
reeking of cordite

and the screeching of the songbirds
a parting rune does not make

after what most
couldn't call a night
you awaken to a congeries
of churlish sutures
snaking up the palm
of your resurrected hand.

your brain sends signals
to the mangled meat
and gristle

it welters and spasms;
it pulls and tears free;
nothing does what it's
supposed to

slowly,
after the rigors of
attempting function
have cramped the
the lower sinews
of your arm;

after tiny confused
and clumsy movements
yielding but a tiny
wriggle in what you
once called a finger

blood starts to pool
and seep
past the spidered
black threads and
last night’s
cellular adhesions

a slowly forming stigmata
growing to resemble
what once you were
taught to be;
what once
it might have been

a healing hand of christ;
a hand of longing
and forgiveness;

of redemption

with the strength of will
and the benevolence of cowardice
the unfolding of a midwestern gothic

in the deep dry night
when these tired stars glow ablaze
your hair aflame swaying and dancing
within the hyperventilating wind

the pills you were given come up short
only manage to muddle your senses
and turn your stomach

the sterile bandages have their own stench
you'll vomit up bile with your hair still aflame
reflecting softly in the porcelain

you’ll act as if this suicide was
mandatory and not a matter
of stubborn pride

the blackbirds now scream and claw
around your rotting mouth, they want your
tongue and teeth, they want your dehydrated eyes

you’ll worry and fray at the stitching
pulling through that spun silver thread
as it breaks free and loose
from your tattered soul

to go shimmering
effervescent
evanescent through this
deep dark midwestern
hallucinatory night

in the soft light
i have forgotten
these things that
i stood with and against

softly upon my nape
i feel that chilled patter
of time
running down
and out over the flimsy
membrane of anamnesis

a gentle coup de grace
a whisper of mercy

the point of this or any
other matter blunted by
cowardice or a doubt
steeped in apprehension

i know it does no good
but i do resent the abrupt
and violent end
to my sense of self

and to now having to
fill that void with clumsy
lesser things
and that sectioned second
elongated in my memory

of that moment when the
sky fell all around
my sight tunneled
and the fingers
from my left hand

cooled into lifelessness on
a steel table

and from somewhere
as if
from a great distance

a disembodied screaming

we stand in huddled masses
hunkered against the driving snows
dreaming ourselves sheltered

but in actuality waiting
with dumbfounded appetency
for the poleax

ineluctable slaughter
a slow march toward relief
away from this frozen bastion

ululating into the indifferent sky
their ears deaf to our hearts’ beating
the clouds encroach with malice

they've stacked our bones high
as kindling into towering bulwarks
all in the name of progress

and these shorn, trampled forests
have become a nidus of their iniquity
somehow all of this became accepted

abiding of this prefatory miasma
dim views of birds falling
and gray ash, susurrous

floating through the whipping grasses
all the beasts lying down
their tongues lolling

they have terminably broken its back

all these lowly beasts
of your flowered heart
drag you off
into and through
those fields on fire

you’ve cut the heads off
your tin foil gods
cut their hearts out too

you are lost and you have lost
Acheron boils over and
your hand looks almost real
in the glint of a traced arc

you shudder in the sudden rain
you are out of time
without time
the willows have begun to weep

this excrescence suffocates all hope
your heart starts to bleed
in this wretched light

try not to
yowl into the sleepless
sundered night
with these visions
of annihilation and other
things such as this way come

there will be times

where it will be
your flesh and bone

tendon and sinew

against steel
and momentum

carbide and pneumatic pressure

and you will not win
you will not come out whole

but with just enough wherewithal

to know what it was
that has been stripped from you

you will be shown how deep

your strength of will actually goes
how to don you’re bravest face

against the inequity and
trickery of your own mind

and you’ll be shown

a more nuanced definition
of resolve

you will know what it means to ache

with the desire for surrender
and what it means to

deny yourself that too

these are the severed beasts
of the left hand
of a cowboy gothic
the stone caves in
your chest.

wield it against the dust
against the hundreds of miles
with no rain
your hair will stand on end
at the moment the bone is peeled
of its skin and muscle.

your eyes
like smoked glass,
your skin tight
and jaundiced,
your mind a meadow
on fire.

the rivers now are of gasoline
cutting down through those
mountains of steel we left behind.

at night the sun never seems to set
anymore.
it never seems to rise, either.
and this world can hardly get to
sleep in this perpetual half-light.

the trees howl at the holes in the sky
vacated by the moon and stars.
when it gets like this your heart explodes.

you squeeze the air with all you have,
the air shudders a few millimeters.
with nothing to hold onto
and nothing to hold it with.
the bones drop from your hand,

one by one by one by one.

they came in off
the deserts
blind from the sand
and wind

baying at the
western moon
well past any
decency at
such an hour

frothed by mouth
and desperate paws
clawed your door
to splinters

you burned
your home down
in the nadir
at dawn

just to try
and keep them
without

unable to hold
out or on
with your blood
igniting in your veins

these actions devoid
of empathy
and too
lacking in
malicious intent

they retreated
to the skirting
just beyond the
encircling venal light

there you were
hoping that the
sun would rise

before the
ashes inhaled
the palling light

at the edge of night
where abandoned dogs
tarry
in the pitch
an evil impends

cordate horrors
pour out to the
floor
of a room
now on
fire

hold against it.
a dimness in the shortened days.
this lupine night extending
inward and out.

it's been there since the beginning,
unrecognizable at first but
a more certain predilection
now.

toward darkness perpetually,
imperceptibly saddening your brow,

shifting over all these decades
it sinking its teeth
into your nape.

familiarly a consistent pressure
its absence unimaginable
its staunchness unendurable.

one day you awaken with a fear
of dimly lucent days.

a weakened sun
coughing light through those
tendrils, laying hold of
the chattering sky,

made in haste and hate.

last night i slept
not but a little.
my hand nagging
and gnawing. nerves
leaping against inert,
numb flesh.
but it’s all progress,
i must remember
to see it as such.
the other way
is doom and it’s always
nigh. it takes
no small efforts
to keep it from
leaping at my face.
the doom is ready
and waiting for
my vigilance to taper.
gnashing those slender
fangs, spitting sparks
at my enkindled mind.
it wants to make its move.
so i fight and stay
awake lest my guard
wanes down and
this doom barges in
to tear and raze
my world to bits.

now,
we can fix it,
we can fix anything.

provided there are
enough medical
sutures and clean
needles.
and pills
of appropriate
doses.

but
what will be,
will not be
what you want.

it may barely
be what you need.

this room.

hazed and browned
like some stinking
opium den.

inside that curling
smoke you hear a
sigh. a slithery
whisper.

the devil flashes
his smile. his sharpened
gleaming steel.

it slips between the ribs
and bites your lung.
you cough up your
wallet and blood.

your teeth rust.
tarry air seeps from
your nostrils.
your heart hardly
beats anymore.

the sunlight slows
and your eyes dim.
it’s just
a little salt water.
there, in the corner.

you’ve learned to climb those branches
surprised at your own sprightly agility

higher and higher you go.

all those watching
are now impressed

higher and higher you go.

they will love you
as long as you keep climbing
they will adore you

ahh but when you falter
and fall
when your mangled claw
loosens it’s grip
when the boughs
give and break

your abrupt dissent will be
considered a betrayal
something
done unto them
undeserving of such a thing

you’ll meet scorn face to face
bewildered and crestfallen
but unsurprised

this reeked of inevitability
from the start

gripping the throat
a trembled hand

teaching you a
lesson. is this the
way it ought to be?

your brave face
going dark,
those eyes fill
with blood.

this is stupid.

without a point.
with no end.

something always
gives. at this moment
your windpipe

yielding.

my hand is a mangled claw.
healing? sure. but
most definitely mangled.
i haven’t put out new music
in over two years.
should this matter?
to the world at large,
it is a resounding no.
but my soul,
my soul depends on it.
my soul
anemic and weakened
staggers around the
corners of my memory.
i try to nourish it.
to feed it
what i can but
it’s been war
for a long time and new
horrors have arisen.
i ration out my beleaguered
heart to it. my soul can’t
hold it down and vomits
out the gruel. i hold its
sick head in my hands
i whisper words of encouragement,
i tell it things will be
alright, as bombs go off
in my head and
the rafters come down.
it is fevered and coughing,
i clean it up as best
i can and put on
my bravest face.
i don’t want to spook
my soul. i let it rest.
i let it cry. i let it be.

and now I have my hand
to clean.

my heart has always
harbored a darkness
i leaned into it often

the inky black
velvety with ache
it was a way to be
the only way
i understood

to gain a comfort
in that pitch
a price had to be paid

it was paid
and even though
i don’t think of it
too much anymore
regret browns the edges
as it perpetually looms
in the periphery

waiting

you’ve made me invidious
with your light,
your smile tinged
with regret
all this could have
been different
if only my courage
didn’t leave me
when you had to make
those choices
and yet
there you are
stalwart against
the bleak darkness
of the world,
protean to the
circumstances,
radiating forth
a pure and easy light
because you know
with the wisdom
hidden there in the slight
upward curl of your
lip and the soft squint
in your eye
that the outcome
of those choices
could have been
something far worse
and a lot more
less than favorable.