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.

the rains come heavy
and swift, the
long, low rumble across
a sky, the clouds
spilling darkness
over the sunlight.
now,
there are different types
of indifference, some
of malice and pain
some of steel and bone
a set number of
revolutions per minute,
an upward trajectory
and it’s over just like that.
water pouring into the basement
wind unroofing your house
blood blisters bursting
between the sutures.

the birds
they are a
murmuring
and the sun
it is a setting
slow across and
into the lowly
horizon
do not despair
the time lost
do not despair
the imperfections
of our attempts
the world slides
past beneath a
reluctant sky
these are mountains
that we’ve built
a gaucherie
in envy of the ruins
left for us
misled assayers
dreaming back
to a former glory
these are mountains
of nothing
we are an
anachronism
not fit for this place

the ropes are coarse
thistly upon thy
nape

the night moans
and the ground palpitates,
doughty!
those places you won't be.
you can't be.
now the walls
in this billet bombinate.
so lay low toward
your suffering and
its easements.
in this tiny droning room,
reeking of tar and soot,
with its jittering, jumping light,
we supplicants
transcend in
through the flames.

the light without
has gone
incandescent, green.
the leaves have
all turned
up and over.
belaud the
templed clouds,
falling.
our breath
shortened within.
south became
north
and the world
started to
drown.

you are fierce
and full of
courage,
your heart swells
like the last
wolf
in a smoldering
forest
with nothing
left to
eat.

first they came
and took my
tail and then
they took the horns.
they clipped
my wings and came
for the fangs.
they returned once
again and pierced
my eyes and
removed my forked
tongue, peeled
the fur and scales.
i allowed them
to do it,
complicit in the
dismemberment.
because every time
they paid their visits
the horizons behind
and above their
mountainous shoulders
- scarlet, bright,
and on fire.
- the skies above
deadest of blacks
and raining pitch.

in this world
i get lost
inside
the nuanced
increments.
beneath the
projected ennui.
in the subtle
shift of
light
or the granular
dissolution of
a captured
sound.
i dwell in
those things
dismissed.
assumed
to all look
and sound
the same.
mesmerized by
the infinitesimal
multifarious
diffusions.
it's an attempt
at completion
a naive urge
to absolute
fulfillment.

what is this that
you are after?
i’ve lain with the
rotting, salivating
dogs in this
lousy bed
of nails and
glass.
who, bay
protests at
my intrusions,
snarl at
my nape, and
the injustice
of this occupation.
so you’ve kicked
the thorns
through my
side.
the stench from
those festering
wounds reeks
of burnt rubber.
i hold out my arms
and try to
see inside of here,
this lowly station.
try to fit
into your
throttlehold.
i’m stumbling
with knives at
my brain,
knives at my throat.
i choke down
the panic
and blood.
you force my eyes open
and black smoke
pours out.
you mention the
suicides and their
unending chains,
and i still
manage to feel
ashamed.

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.

the western wind
soft upon the beating
wing. whispers in
the plumage.
'forth, forth,
against me
you must glide.
i am the lift required
for the distance
you must travel.'
and as if by
instinct or some
unknown but felt
truth we tilt our
secondaries into
the whispering and
move toward the
gloaming distance.

the slow
and fragile
gliding
of this
parabolic arc
the humming
of the fast wing
a wavering heart
napping in
the numinous soil,
dreaming amidst
the whispering
of worms
and other soft
hissing noises.

the king is dead!!
has been
for a fortnight
probably longer.
but we ignore that
inconvenient fact and
stalwart our praise
of him against such
detractors as ourselves.

for to admit
and accept
that fact of demise
is to surrender
and retreat
into and with defeat.
and realize that we
are the captains
of our pain.

adrift with no anchor,
or hope, or wind
in our sail.
this sea
pitiless, deep,
and cold, and dark
beneath our
rotting plank.
patient and bottomless.

i am the baying
of the wolves at
pre dawn when that
shiver trickles up
your spine.

i am the late hours,
the hunger
suppressed,
a fevered insomniac
hallucination.

i am the pealing
of the night
bells.

when that ray of sunlight
slithers its way through
the fissure in my
dystopian dome,
it is a most terrifying of miracles.

i am the lesser version
of your expectations,
not quite the right shape
and size to fit
in that paradigm
you aggrandize.
bestow upon me a betterment,
a kindness and I will
disappoint you.

feign a blame on vanity,
inaccurate and reluctant.

watch out!!
for the gods, they
have become
careless. as the teeth
of dawn sink
into the night
and let your days,
where nothing your
hands do is correct,
and panic
and dither
settle everywhere
like dust, cascade
over your troubled dome.

and from them
silence, impenetrable
silence is offered
as the only appropriate
answer
to the begging
question, what will
become of me and
my stone heart.

the arrows cling
to my flesh
and the stones!
oh the stones,
they reverberate
through my
splintered bones.

i'm not sure i can handle
the past.
these quotidian visitations.
with all the aches and grief,
with all its remembered
panic and
worry and
woe.

although at this moment
its seeming simplicity
has a certain charm,
a slowly growing glow
emanating through the
memory centers of my brain.

it tricks the heart to skip
a beat, maybe two.
maybe tricks it to stop
altogether.

it is a grand seducer,
a known cozener. and
i fall for it often,
i fall for it now,
knowingly partaking in
the bane.

because the future
awaits smirking
with the blades
gleaming.

melancholia, or
the darkening
of the blood.

in the deepest
part of the night,
(3:23 a.m.
to 4:47 a.m.)
i take great
comfort in the
shape shifting
of my hemoglobin
to black bile.

the future
billows
into the winds,
whipping
the last trees.
and in the
lowly rustle
we lose our
way. marching,
oh so bravely,
into the delusion
of salvation
as our mountains
turn to storms
of sand.

you, supine
in your divinity,
as these perfect
days prove to
be our last.
and out hearts
give over to
chaos and
madness.

the sky ignites,
the waters
now still
and dead.
a grey ashen
murk.

those words,
come to us
from some
ancestral
recesses in
the turbid
encephalon
of our minds.

ignis letum

as the rest
of the flames
overtake our
homes and
flesh.

::: five postcards :::

this is
what i
become,
in this
space
as i fight
in the
insomniac
hour against
my shriveling
will

it radiates outward
from my center
something akin
to peace
that static droning
in my ears, my
mind. everything
in focus
the waves of
black light
crashing within
my chest and
i flow
with it

no longer do i
impede this
darkness,
i am the
darkness
i am the
world's broken
heart

as the light
goes out of
our eyes

we stare into
the bleak distance
and behold

the darkening
enormity of
our unfinished
dream

now the
winds
tear the
blossoms
from their
homes
out in this
wilderness
amidst the
wolves
and other
beasts

i've got birds
that soar
in my heart

that scream
into the
mountains

over the trees
and above
the festering
rivers

we turned back
and watched the
ashes in the sky,
our hopes lay
gasping and the
concrete burning
beneath our feet.

from the west
the winds
will tear
the sinew
from our bones.
in this
bleak light
our tattered
hearts rest.

and all this,
i did
while you slept

i sheared the mountains
i ignited the oceans

i filled your soul
with sorrow

i did this
i did this all
i am

the broken
arrow shaft,
poisoned tipped,

in your heart

let
the sky
fall
down
into the
inimical
and
jaundiced
ocean

let
the
mountains
burn
and the
fevered
world
gasp

in the
miscellany
of these
days,

i can
feel it
come

swelling,
gripping
my skull

tightly.
constricting
my breast.

choking
my soul.
disappointment

is a way,
is the way.
the ash

fills my eyes,
nose, throat.
breathe in

deeply.
my blood
thickens,

my heart
slows.
my vision

blurs, fades,
washes out.

the lie
is accepted.
morphing

into a truth,
into the truth.
our existence

now hinges
upon
it.

i've spilled it
on myself again,
this darkening
trouble,
this deepening
sorrow,
harboring this
lament into
and through
the sweet
night

in this twilight
it seeps into
my marrow. i can
feel its darkness
set into my skeleton,
it reconfigures the
bone, my structure.

as the constellations
scrape their dead lights
across the voided
welkin in primordial
trajectories, this
blackness i become.
subsumed in its

totality. rendered
unrecognizable by
that grand usurper.
i, vaporized by the
insatiable ticking
of the second hand,
smirk at its gape.

now the shadows
speak softly

the night slithers
away. and

it is usually
in these predawn

hours that i
long for the

eternity of
those moments.

it has been years
of restless sleep

for the stirring
of the soul only

yelps and howls
when i nod and

close my eyes.
i have a keen

sense of trouble.
it's wondrous and

exhausting. i can
feel it all crumbling

deep down in my
darkness. it touches

my liquefying mind.
it spills out and

seeps through the
floor boards

eons before you wake.
when you greet me

in the morning you
are, in all actuality,

greeting someone else.
a stranger

how we loved
the yearning
of the views
unbroken

...and from
the earth
lightning
cracked
into the
ruinations
of the
extinct sky

the gift
of the six
golden kings
grows into
our empty
dawn

floating
through the
black mists
of our feigned
sanctity

the pining rain
and the hot
tar roofs

the embers
of hope
slain by
our enterprise
glow dimly
in the
choking night

now we build
towers for our
wilting hearts

a
melancholy
descent

through the days
of the golden
light we spoke
of salvations

sturdy oaks
groan whispers
of hope

those places of
your slumber
crackling with
fire

when the
skies are
thick,
and oily,
and black
we shall
gather sunlight
through
the windows
of our dreams

drowning in the rains
all the ghosts
achromatize into
the mountains
of my memory

lumps in my throat
grow when the stars
revolve around my
heart

the nightly pyre
all dressed up
in sweat melted fat

sitting here
in the
fumigating night.
a thought
blazes across
the dome
of my skull.
another, then
another.

i ponder this
world i have
constructed and
continue to
build. i marvel
at its imperfect
totality. how it
harkens that other
place. how it reflects
it's horrors and
sadness. how it
attempts to
blaze with
that fragile
insignificance
of its
beauty.

in the attics
in basements.
in the solitudes
something stirs
and another
scavenged morsel
falls in to fill
the abyss.
the descent
eternal and
insatiable,
into a place,
this place
that is
now mine.

i take pictures everyday
every single day
mostly of the skies
to evidence the fate of
come what may

not unlike the Colonel
in his century of solitude
with his daguerreotype
pointed at the skies
trying to capture the face
of god in the clouds.

for I fear our doom is up
there hurtling towards us

i can feel
it change
it's in
these shifting
seasons.

it's in
the orange glow
of the cities
beneath the
billowing
skies.

it's in
the trees
on fire,
in the
shrieking
of the night.

in the lonely
call of the
last birds
that refuse
to take
the sky.

the blades
are upon
our nape and
i can feel
the change.

the shadows fall
long and merciless
over the dust of
this brutality
and your hopeless
despair.
all you are
is under siege.

at the end of
your dreams you
wake up with the
taste of iron on
your tongue and
your heart's metallic
clang beating a
terrible rhythm.

those roofs
that our
fathers
built

have all
tumbled in.
cinders
glowing

in our
simmering
rage

the rafters
caved
in over

the blistered
rotted
floors

where we've
lain like
mute

dogs
whimpering
and begging

for the
hunger

for the
darkness

to subside

all that
remained
was the
ash. falling
gently
upon our
lashes
and lids
as we
closed
our eyes
against
the laden
greyness.
and into
the final
slumber we
sloped away
with the
embers
softly
hissing.

awakened to
things falling
from the skies
filling the
streets,
drowning
the sidewalks
in blood
and heavy,
broken

hearts.

this is not new.

this is
not

new!

for ages we
have screamed
into and
through
these long
nights of
bewilderment
and horror.

yet,
every time
these falling
horrid
things
take us
by surprise,
crumpling
our measly
souls
of tin.

leaving us
marveling at
the spurious
novelty
of our
own

iniquity.

in these grey
mornings
searching
for hymns
of triumph,
and truth,
and the helpers
but alas there
is none to be
or to have.

so i brace
myself, for
the darkness
swells.

disintegration.
all this here
moves toward
its end.

it is there.
in the whispered
hush of
leafless trees.

in the obliterating
light at the
close of the
penultimate night.

ready yourself
for that knife
because in this
endeavor you
have no say and
of this you've
dreamt big dreams.
in such sorrowful
reverie the skin
slips from the
bone and in this
wasting you've
found rejoice
that now they've
left nothing of
you. a death
cinematic
in its enormity.
totalitarian
in its finality.

driving past
the solitude
of that night,
ready yourself
for what may
come forth
from the dawn
slit horizon.

the smoke fills
in quickly,
the day blurs
what the trees
have left
behind. there
is a little
pang of in
the hollow
beneath your
ribcage.

as you
dream of sun
lit memories
trembling in
the wells of
your eyes.

ah, to move
with gentle
agility
through the
night...

instead
a clumsy
staggering
racket devoid
of grace

i turn my
head, so the
mucus can
slide to
the other
side of my
skull

and the
ringing in
my ears
swills from
right to
left

this is
something
else, a
shallow
breathing
through the
throbbing
night

an insipid
dance with
exhaustion
breathing in
the shards
of this
shattered
heart

the impermanence
of this notion
that this is
us standing
at the edge
of the tar pits.
our future
now a bubbling
blackness.
the stench of
this darkness,
the coagulation
of it in
our throats
and sinuses,
the attempts at
a simple breath
have now become
our belabored
futility.

the braying of great beasts
trundling through the
opaque mists of their
nefarious sorrows

their legs giving out
their souls cracking
with sounds like
arthritic knuckles

their chests heave
once, twice and
crush beneath the
plodding weight of

their surrendering
hearts

i have
a jealous
green heart
blackened
with smoke
and soot
and cliche
splashing
through
sentimentality
like a
drowning
idiot

the switch blades
quick as lightning
enter at the base
of the skull
where that flesh
is tender, soft.
into where
everything is
white hot.

into the blinding
light i go
dancing with
falling leaves

there is no
comfort in
this repose

there is no
reverence,
no solace

for a
dying
world

out from the haze
of the blotted sun,
our transgressors
anointed in acids,
lay waste to
all our lands
our blood running
cold and thin
in the raining fires
death comes from above

descending in obdurate
hordes, the chill of
the dawning greets us
with hopes of death
and their blades
warm with blood,
their eyes hollow
with greed

seek refuge from the
vile swarms in
those ivory towers
built tall from
the friable bones
of our dead
on these,
the raptures
of our harrowed,
mournful days

witness the conflagrations
of these, the last days
when fire came from
the sky and the ash
looked like the first snow
of our last winter

in the distant baying
the cries of confusion,
chaos, pandemonium

yet you stood still on a hilltop
at peace, serene, easy
aglow in the fires' light
saying farewell to this
and that madness

the days
grind
to dust.

our sorrow
swells
the clouds.

we have
nothing to
ask of you

any longer.

this is now
our deepest
river.

devoid of liquid
but swift
and eager

to drown.

we move,
like all
things,

toward
the end.

in this,
the penumbra
of depression
emblazoned across
falling skies
the soul
liquifies,
and its slow
turn to acidity
corrodes
motivation,
stiffens all
the joints.
the rest
pours through
thin fingers,
intertwined
and seized
feebly grasping
at the void.

from beneath
mountains
they attack,
my mind
like a
burning brick,
incomprehensible,
bewildered,
and dead.

as the pale
light glints
in the dust
risen from
below their
hooves,
their faces
dark and
mangled,
their swords
dipped in
gore,
the viscera
of my brain
steams in
the cool dirt.

the scene,
again
unfolding
across the
shaded hillsides
of our unending
histories,
the fog
glowing red.

and as the
swollen sun
cuts across
the apex of
the tree line,
everything
hushed now,
the call of
our last bird
carries into
the yellowing
morning.

to murder this night
i must glide in
as an assassin
mute, taciturn
as if on a whispered
raven's wing

with a thin guitar string
wrapped around its throat
with a twist of the wire
i feel it cut
into the tender flesh
and the night gasps

the stars wince with
their dead flickering light
the moon turns its face
away, so as not to
bear witness
of my impropriety

the garrote slips into
the meat of my fingers
the blood pools at
our feet and in the glory
of the sun's first rays
my hands glow

like two electrified
rubies, dripping with
the dangling gore
of a butchered night

i get in my way
often with these
hands

i used to make things
now i break
them

crush every little
thing, every little
bone

the black birds
scream and dive
bomb

out of the sunless sky
into the welcoming
earth

they, like me,
finally have had
enough

i wake up from this
nightmare, i wake up
dead

everything drained out
of me, the bloodletting of
hope

i am upon the time
of my mangled
dreams

i gather my crumpled
confidence and realize
nothing

this better be good.
a thought slithers
down the spine
gliding on venom.

and once again.
bitten by that snake
of ambition, the
heart chokes with

disappointment.

i feel as
a peddler
on the street,
a street

peddling his
flimsy and
shabby concoctions
of doom and grime

come and
get it
get it here
now or never

except i lack
the street
and the cart
and even courage

i feel a
traitor to
my soul
my pneuma

but even the
gods had to
show us what
they'd done

a nascency
frivolous
often wicked
and seldom

equitable

he stood there
dreaming of
greener grasses

the potentiation
for a collapse
grew larger,

stronger.

he watched all
that green fade,
rubbed out

it could have
been so much
better and

in supposition,
could have been
worse too.

these judgments
of quality are
of no necessity

they trample out
his grasslands, strip
out the verdure

if he could
stand as
something different,

stronger.

if it could just
be disparate
for him.


with all these ifs
that beauty once
beneath his feet,

all around him dies.

it is cold
and silent
a grey wind
moans through
the loose
window
when it gets
just like
this
i feel the
world has
stopped
and now
it is mine
to fill

all i have
to fill
it with
is yellowed
memories
faded and
melancholy
films
a dull
and sullen
pining
for days
that might
have been
that maybe
were

i can't be
certain

but i hope
this silence
lasts.

fingers,
twisted as
the aimless
souls on
these streets.
frost bitten
with winter's
duty and

this job,

nothing always
changes.

for them
as for me
the days
unwind and
unravel,
disappearing
and to what
end?

in wonderment
of supposed
purpose
the answers
clatter about
in my skull.
inscrutable

insomniac

phantoms.

and all
i covet
is sleep.

everything
tightens
around my
spine
with a
foul
taste
nothing
stands
as decent
or good
i'm
watching
the hours
thin
and turn
to broken
arrows

memory is the
undying
companion
of grief

pumping through
the night
even the air is
wearing scant

decades later
you'll love this
all the thin
slender nights

when you wished
the bones had
more meat on them
but were glad

that they didn't
it is clear now
the necessity
of every thorn

now
i'm on my back
sentimentality
standing on
my chest

it's beginning
to stomp and
all my soft
innards
burst

my blood backs up
my brain drowns
in it
my eyes swell
with it

my vision
fractures

down this
corridor
i've traveled often
but never quite
like this


and this might
be the moment
that i
don't make it
through

the rag
in the basin
looks like
a headless bird
plucked of
its feathers
and deflated
the disappointment
comes in waves
alternating
into desperation
and inert
dejection
this might
very well be
all that you
were allowed
to manifest
which today
feels like
a short coming
like not much
at all

when he saw the white bird fly
his child,
that would soon end up like him,
stole two golden coins from
his dead eyes

he was lost within four years
after his wife died
he often stank of ashes
he stole fortunes,
hid them beneath the stairs

i heard his gypsy song yowl
through the predawn,
his ghost came like a blur,
smearing the night
flapping wings and feathers
against the storm

a cold word
written by
a cold hand
the sun
is ablaze
washing out
the sky
stripping off
its azure

she stood
next to him
putting her
arm around him
a chill
like an
ice pick
shot through
his limbs

he wished
to be
satisfied
instantly
even though
it would
mean his soul
not a word
was uttered
as she did
his bidding

him lying
on his back
muscles tight
with pleasure
sneaking peaks
at pink
marvels
and red hot
daydreams

a multitude
of tasks

perhaps it
would have

been worthwhile
to pay

attention to
the flow.

there is
courage

in the
morning sun

yet it
is still

not enough
to remove

the numbing
void.

there it is,
the television,

what little
peace was

mustered, now
is gone.

the lighters
click

the percolator
hisses and

gurgles and
drips.

i try
not to

vomit.

a hell of
a morning.