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.