there is a knocking
at the base and
sides of my skull

i struggle for words
as the drowning
do for air

there is a constriction
and interference
and everything starts to
shudder

the world blurs
the air turns to lighting
my ears, eclipsed
with a high pitched hum

i feel nothing
except for the blood
pounding against my veins

when it gets like this
i wish to set it free
spill it out so as to

keep my heart from
rattling the cage
in my chest

my eyes
grow dark
and dim
bleared with
ravenous
desires as
the glow
emanates
from your
center
burning holes
through the
crisp skies
that even
now the
birds will
avoid

your smile
quickens
the pulse
and my blood
thunders
down my
veins
everybody's
going down
no one
will be left
standing
you bring
the bright
morning
and i
the night's
murderous
intent.

i think of Lorca
in the field
beneath spain's
cruel sun
field wrens
screeching
the gypsies'
lament
startled by sharp
and abrupt
reports
rending the
drowsing
afternoon air

the soldiers
merely boys as
green as the
early summer
wheat
as their own
uniforms
turning back
toward the
muddied jeep
thinking of
lovers
and eager
for pussy
heading back
into town
to sip some
sour
ruby wine
and disregard
their deed

and i dream
of his heart
in that melancholy
field
splintered by
the youthful
bullets of duty
into those violet
and crepuscular
dragonflies
skimming
hovering above
the backwaters
of his tender
solicitude

the rider's bones
clattered and
clanked behind
a dusted horse
on the cobbled
empty streets
awash with the
early rains that
brought us all
this gloom..
in this, the last
of our seasons.

here is where
i long to stand
undeserving to
witness even
a glimpse,
i have
prodigiously,
wasted its beauty.

yet i have
dragged through
pained days,
searched and
scoured through
this bleeding
heart, just to
make it
back home.

trembling at
the abyss
overwhelmed
by trepidation
and wonderment,
paralyzed by
this beleaguered
choice.

i harrow
the barren
soil of
these days
to find nary
a word
or thought,
to sprout forth
anything from
the unyielding
earth of my
frozen pneuma.

the rains
came fast
and hot.
washing all
our dreams
tangled
on the ends
of their
pitiful
little ropes,
swaying from
the belabored
boughs.

the winds
rattled the
splintered
rafters in
the washed
out belfry.
tolling faintly,
the bell
for all
our wicked
imbecility.
and our
mesmerized
benefaction
fooled by
our own
gadgetry.

there are streets
not too far
from here
lined with ruins,
burnt down
and out.
a dull and raw
nevi revered in
disgust. a
forlorn stigmata,
in disbelief.
perhaps, it has
been mused,
beauty sleeps
and is scarified
there. a sluggardly
return to a
pungent humus.
and when the sun
escapes from
there at its end,
little whispers
float about and
all around
in the empty
and nearly
silent wind.

they can't be
saved and they
won't be,
if there was
just some way
to show it
to you as
it sleeps
gentle and brutal
in its malevolent,
violent silence.
it wilts and
it thrives and
i can't make a bit
of sense out
of any of it.
it is all there
in all its
blankness.
nameless, just
beyond the word,
beyond the
abject fascination
within the
salted tears,
without a
flowering reason.

two more
swallows of
this coffee
gone rancid
and cold,
i'll be on
my way
attempting
to make it
back through
the trenches
and barbed
wire.
praying that
it won't
be there,
waiting
for me,
that trap
i've set
and fallen
onto and into
so often.
each time,
forgetting
where
exactly it
has been
laid.

she tears
into it
with rusty
dull tools.
pain flows
like a slow
spring stream
and no one
smiles round
here anymore.
it soaks
through
everything.

there is
really
no use in
hiding
anything.
without
exception,
it is always
the same.

we build
addictions
and routines
as skyscrapers
and
monuments.
we swear on
the graves
of mothers
and saints,
that there
is no way
in hell
we'll succumb
to all
of this
again.

there is grandeur
around every corner
and it is
in the trees
and on the
leaves that
have collected
themselves on
the sides of roads.

sometimes it ebbs
forth from dented
speakers serenely,
quickly and it fills
the mouth
the nose
the eyes and most
importantly, the ears.
it fills the lungs
and stops everything.

the room gets
quieter, warmer
even though the nights
come swiftly and time
emanates relentlessly,
still out of reach
but still somehow alright.

and these, our torn hearts,
we mend every time
using stronger cords
and wiser stitching
believing that
each time we
have immunized
our rickety pumps.

nevertheless, the storms
always come and
they bring their love
with their spears, knives,
and cold razors.

in the shadowed
corners, in the
darkest moments
there is the devil
with his sleek and
slimed pitchfork
his eyes alight
like glowing embers
his toothed and curled
smile, sharpening his
blackened claws on
my regrets and misgivings
stamping and stomping
his cloven hooves
counting out all the
things i hove around
this great big world.

lock yourself
in here
until you are
able to move
freely
without worry
or question
without
dependence

you've bred
demons in
your skull
they tear
apart their
home
kicking at
your heart

you swear
you are
dying from
internal
hemorrhaging
i swear
it is
an excuse
to justify
cowardice

to start without
declarations
to begin with
no proclamations
just pure movement
motivation, empathy

how good is it
going to be
when we will
be allowed to
stand straight
again

but our thoughts
incomplete
short lived
perforated by
a death wholly
constant now

it cares for nothing
except the means
of our redemption
we become
beautiful when
we forget ourselves

when we stand
in corners so as
not to distract from
our accomplishment
and work

when we allow it
to flow as our
blood flows
as time does
unending

more rooms
must be built
to hold it
all in
more space
must be allocated
to maintain
such containment
they say that
this is it
and nothing
other can be had
such definitions
such delineation

atrocious inhibitors
killers of beauty
killers of songs
murderers of art.
weep with
the sinking sun
because it will
not be the
same again
all those thoughts
that came uninvited
but welcomed
have now left
disappointed at
such inhospitality

i've busted
up my arms
just trying to
get out of
this snare
its teeth rusted,
pointed and
in to the bone.
i did it to
take on a love
and pass on
fear but
the gamble, rife
with fell intent,
has cost me
the use of
my heart and
not to mention,
again, my arms.

this part was never expected and now
it is probably doing more harm than good

everything froze and numbed
these tears fall gratuitously, now purposeless

it has coalesced into another dereliction
another squandered night

today fell unpropitious, more than normal
the demons run wild

tearing, clutching, taunting
merciless, they won't let go

the attempts to push them away
gummed with futility

everything blazes orange, unsettled
burning down and away

do you not
fear that
all of it
has been
done, used up?
extinguished,
no place to
go anywhere.
it is a nickel's
worth of an
excuse.
but still,
does it
not frighten
you that
there is
nothing left
to gain,
to discover?

time stacks up these
forlorn duties,
beauty is lost to the
cold, wrenched hand
of procrastination.

drift in soft dreams
of traveling down
to those streets
where everything
seemed immaculate.

but that too, gets
lost in procrastination.
this bleak routine turns
into the black serpent
of habit.

winding itself through
the veins, poisoning
the heart, the mind,
the soul and the trinity
dies.

it is seldom
perfect
but it is
most often
preferred.
as the coastline
meeting the sea
ever changing,
asymmetrical
and beautiful
in its
misshapen form.

to learn how
to truly
embrace that
fluctuating and
crooked grace
with action
and faith,
not just words,
but genuinely..
is to master
life.

then everything
starts to surge
even in the
low times,
it rolls
past us
cool and quiet.
a silent vigil
through nights
that cover us
serene and tender,
like soft
blankets.

taking a good day
working it over
until
a heap, twisted
and bent up
bound by each
misgiving
by every page,
beats out its
final measure.
full of scabs
and scars, you
can't stand to
let it heal.