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.

... and when
it happened
all that
was left
were bits
of bone

scattered

pure and
sterile
cleaned of
meat
like the
first snows
of winter

he collected
all of
them and
somehow
felt redeemed

i guess you just
had to be there

where the music
made you want to
just drive

glancing into blurred
reflections on other cars

never wanting to go home
dreaming of all those
other distant roads

never thinking of
going home

only pining to
be lost in the asphalt
and doubled yellow lines

she knelt
and understood
that she
has yet
to own
a thought
deeper than
she is.

she'll have
to fight
or go
numb.
she read
the first
one and
wished
herself numb.

but she
wrote this
other one
and stayed
to fight.

to forget
everything
in her
vicinity would
only serve
to release
the soul.

watching distant
memories hold
on to
the air,
she feels
the marrow
rot and
the fungus
spread.

go ahead
and set
something
free.
she thought.

as it all, was put together
with dirt and rust
and all of the other
things that would hurt

it bled from the sky
to wash away
the burdens
of him and her.

his father grasped
the book firmly
and declared, i'll read it
and put it to memory.

so he only stared and
felt his heart sink
knowing that
what was written

would not nor could
not compare
because the words
on pages previous to this

are blemishes
ugly and trite
and if it did any good
he still had no will

to fight.

i know
that one day

my heart
will stop

exhausted and
hollowed out.

i will welcome
the peace and rest

i will shed
my regrets

like a worn
leathered skin

no longer
worry about

unjust things
and wrong things.