There is no grace to the day’s labors, broken sweat and burning sun. There is no satisfaction in place of compensation, no good hurt to the feeble form. Just another story of chance and frailty, the hands available only these two. There is neither strength of back and thew, or that of will and spirit. It’s just another last labor, a trembling unto death. The...
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The line that’s there is never straight. Space and time assure that it’s up to something. From rhythm to rictus, from fruit to dirt, there are more than roads and travel to getting here. It’s in the way you read it, beats and breaths and good intentions. It’s in the way it sings to you, moving with the burning air through the blood. The screams...
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Heavy is the head that sees the stars, eyes aimed skyward while the road is strewn with rocks and glass. Hard is the stone that breaks the crown upon the tumble down the hill, water lost to gravity, bones bouncing down the slope. It’s in the fall and the landing. It’s where the bucket stops. There’s always someone bearing the brunt of all the sharpened...
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The day dawns like days will do, a band of bright, then all hell breaks loose. The window is still cracked, open to the sky and the wind. The bed even more broken, the dresser and the shelves in their familiar disarray. The time hasn’t flown, it has dragged and drawled over glass and gravel. It has bent the law and broken oaths. Outside the...
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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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