Inching Closer

Should we fear that inevitable death?

I fear death. Goddess of eternal night.

They say no. Hold up those who don't as wise.

The Egyptians thought death as a party.

Breathed Her in during all stages of life.

Back then She was everywhere. Now She hides.

How does skin decaying feel? Aged with each

lightning strike of the clock. Old folk, with skin

thunderstormed, don't fear death. They welcome Her.

Like children spread open arms for mother.

Deterioration illuminates.

But what does it mean when I am just as

Capable of death now, as when I have

become thunderously old? That, I wonder.

It Never Rains But It Pours

Does the weather grow

with us, or is it in tune

with the way we feel?

Tears fall like clouds do

and when screaming is forgot

the thunder breaks loose.

The first day of school

brings rain because the sky mourns

summer, as we do.

And in the dead heat

of summer, doesn’t the wind

somehow taste sweeter?

Colours turn vivid

to a point the eye can’t take

when it goes inside.

They burst together,

to fog the vision into

greenness, redness, blue.

How long has it been

since you were in grass so long

you got to see it?

Almost Music

The tune of a song heard once and nevermore

Echoes to you dulcet, at twilight hours.

An overtaxed ghost who must keep haunting

Long after his names been lost. It may be:

A friend’s band played in a small bar downtown,

Caressed the vena cava, and broke up.

Or the song on local radio by

A contest winner, their name forgotten.

A popular song but a certain way,

At a talent show or a cover band,

Or a woman humming in line before

You strain to hear, at the grocery store.

Radiating tunes take refuge in you.

Can you hear them, even now?

Baubles

Dainty. Pretty. Small. Long, manicured nails.

Fingers like this aren’t long enough to play

the piano. These nails too long to play

the guitar. Together, they are just right

to paint, to decorate, to scoop white bumps

for deliverance to a wanting nose.

Designer hands using designer scoops

like the models. Close to them as you’ll be.

But knuckles get hairy, we can’t have that.

Never on these dainty, pretty, small hands.

[Wasteland, Baby!]

A song in the ears, languid, oozes into the unended worlds atmosphere. People walk by so fast they blur together, morph into each other, become one and individual. Every body in transit for some human reason or other, and I am a figment sitting there. A set piece. A singular grain in the film. Translucent. My brain catalogues their faces, captures them to use in my dreams. Eyes, lips, nose, the curve of the hair, the shape of the shoulder. In this moment the world is so beautiful I wish to cup it in my hands like a small, injured bird, and kiss it softly on the head. Kiss every bird, fowl and peacock and parakeet, and you, and you, and you. And you.

Catharsis Calling

Is it when bestial waves brutally break

through gates tyrannical? Flooding off falls

to nourish roots that have not yet realized

their thirst oppressing? How divine water

tastes to those who have not drank in decades.

Gates stay tyrant, yet waves ravage restraints.

If broken, water cascades adagio.

Does not touch the roots but remains just that.

Falling, wanted water approaches (as

if to mock) but never fills longing lungs.

Catharsis keeps herself out of reach, danc-

ing the devils’ dance, manifesting in

quiet transfixed stares filled brim with feelings:

Desolate yearning; Opaque desire; Fear.

Thought Experiment

Callous and mazed in. Thought-waste creates a

desperation for nourishment that comes

without the burden of rag and bone. This

culminating need illuminates time

to shine as false stars; feigned light in the dark.

When exhaustion takes its place (as it al-

ways does - lapping, lavishing, loving the

sand until it becomes mud) strive for it

all-encompassingly. Beg tiredness

to bring grief with it, that bitter old friend

who drowns scarlet and burns cerulean.

If, then, you do not feel whole, shut your eyes.

Start new from step one, callous and mazed in

Fall in Flame

Water does not burn my skin.

Heat cleanses on burning thrones.

I may yet atone for sins not committed.

Tonight I will begin

Anew. Tidal-ing in ways the

Water does not. Burn my skin

With the brand. It is permitted.

Rebirth by ownership suits me fine.

I may yet atone for sins not committed.

If I could awake without the sin.

If I could forget that

Water does not burn my skin,

I think that would be benefited.

Freedom is another’s thoughts, where

I may yet atone for sins not committed.

For thoughts are made of ricin,

And my mantra is wicked:

Water does not burn my skin.

I may yet atone for sins not committed.

Stiff

Moving like patterns in my mind,

you herringbone around the place.

The royal you. Some twenty or thirty or so.

I want to tell you

but the words burn out in my throat.

Love is hot and heavy.

Not in the harlequin way,

but in concrete.

It solidifies to stop

The growing nature

that dreams of decay.

Of a chance to break through.

One day I’ll sprout

through this thick pavement.

Give me time.

On God

He must age. Experienced youth.

Created free-will without comprehending

The questioning it entails, as

You can’t know-all about what’s unexisting.

Anger rises like heat from an oven

When its mouth opens.

He takes green and punishes,

Locks gates, malicious,

And broods in His teenager bedroom.

Fatherhood delivers calm.

Adolescence awakens

On desire to say,

“It’s okay, if you were bad,

If you were what I have made of you.”

He may yet be that old man with the big white beard.

Or simply a single father:

disheveled, trying His best,

tie slung over His shoulder, sleeves rolled up,

And loving distantly.

The only way He learned how.

nesting

the little bird sits trustingly

inside the mouth of the big

african crocodile, picking

bits of wildebeest from in be-

tween its teeth. Yet the big

african crocodile never

eats the little bird. you say,

"it's symbiotic because

at the end of the day,

you feast on debris inside

my teeth and protect me

from defect."

i say "wow,

so you're a faggot, huh?"