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.

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