There’s always a separation to that old feeling, and feeling old. The longing for the lost versus the complaining of the bones. The descent of night into the deep forest against the wounds that now heal so slow. Loosing spirals of smoke toward the heavens while the last dragonfly of the day darts and gleams while the dusk settles in. All the old grievances to...
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It won’t do to make believe, it won’t do to want and wonder. It was never what you thought. No one ever told you otherwise, mistaken from stone to star, the difference between the dreaming and who you really are. A lap full of ashes and holes scorched through the sheets, the knowledge imparted again and again, the same old record played from end to...
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It’s the beating wings of the butterfly that dreamed it was a poet, it’s the one crushed flower right outside the time machine, the incident and its attendant ripples reaching out through the world. These plumes of smoke, this tide of sky spilling down, the dopplered song of the unyielding train washing over brick and asphalt. The heat that lingers in the tarmac, the albedo...
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We move along among the skies, waning from wound to wound. The earth shows in stone and bloom, the night goes full on moon. The catch in your voice, the rudiments that fail the truth, the world from end to end and turn by turn leaving behind these overwrought ruins. The madness catches like a fire, it spreads through these unhinged hearts and microwave emissions....
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The day wanders as it will, all hot and bothered, graceless and aimless and littered with glass and shrapnel. I sit and smoke with my insignificance, thinking about all the things I don’t want to think about, full of want and lack. It isn’t the day’s fault, I’ve always been like this, maybe more so now that the manic doesn’t happen so often. It isn’t...
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The planet would not recognize a pure hearted man. The universe is always up to something. You matter, in the sense that every ant and bee matter. In the way that every bacterium and virus matters, as part of the squirming, seething, motion of the whole. You look to nature, you find no kings. You look to nature, you see the way creation plays out...
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Shine all you want sun, you still won’t touch me. Pray all you want, the blessings won’t bend the will of the world. The wind rises, the ache expounds upon its thesis, pain the way flesh navigates the music of the spheres. I don’t say, and no ones asking. Just the clock and the calendar playing telephone pole as the train pulls away. Flipping through...
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The day goes on and on, like it’s cornered you at a party. The day just keeps at you, like some guy you’re going to deck. It makes the hard pitch, it has the patter and the pressure, but it doesn’t make the sale. The sun slips away, well past the point when it’s almost gone, it has tipped out leaving the sky aflame as...
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I went outside to look for the moon, to see the moon and think of you besides. The sky all stars and silhouettes, the scrub pines and hedge cypress against the light washed night. But the moon was missing, and you were too, though I didn’t expect to see you. Even the moon avoids me, even the stars take a pass. The night too far...
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In the age of flagrancy there is little that is revelatory, the moon from the blue, the books in the red. The buried bloom, the bared root. The teeth that have never shown for smiles, the heart that wants for some other tautology. Office holders openly advocate murdering their constituents while others in the government sit shiva as accessories, stealing, and sucking the nation dry....
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The beat down gets busy once it knows where you sleep. It falls on you in the softened darkness of the room where you scratch at sleep, it hits you in your dreams and days, it strikes out of your eyes in the mirror. This pain begins the slow estrangement, the false duality of body and mind, the brain there to cool your blood as...
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This is the light that comes to pass, this is the blinding sun through the windshield. This is the light loosed at last, the arrival of the fiery horizon. The doves stalled upon the fence, the sparrows busy in the yard. This is the city never known, the crowded crosswalks and the fitful traffic. No heady sense of purpose ringing from the bones, no draw...
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