a daydream’s peril
simply spoken, I do not know if it'd be still owned within myself-- anymore displaced, from its home this, the echo-hollow having filled itself with more of itself-- overgrown its legions, its incarnations bloated and swollen and its claw-finger children whose eyes haven't glimmer and whose mouths, sealed, never sing ...
the somber song
we’d need a thing taller than love-- to heal us, of our broken faith, lovers a thing-- taller than the stoic mountain it’d wish be regarded capped in sun-brushed, purple-heather sway tho at its peaks, a petulant child, it’d be bellowing its stone-tablet demands aye, its red-faced, screaming needs tho ...
conversations #1
"All men want that.." "That is untrue. Some of us, or at least one of us, wishes only to know your nuance, those things missed, or disguised, and to learn the depth of one's shadow; each with dimension, 'tis where we reside." ...
ecstasy of sorrows
this business of living, kills us all "He lived a good life," they said one, after another-- and the women wept, the men, solemn hands folded, heads tipped, slightly down watching seam-stocking legs and shining shoes growing up-- out of the sullen-umber ground the combed-hair children, epiphanous, this day ninety ...
Who will stay?
Who will stay Until we are old, pale, and grayed, bodies fallen? Who will stay When we are broken, when we haven’t words Knowing our silence, taking our hand as we are stilled by fear? Who will stay Through our whispering insanity Finding forgiveness, though unfair, their crucifixion? Who will ...
unborn soul
this thing, craved tho our wish’d be always uncertain having learned, since children of hope’s wanton dereliction our orbit-paths, paralleling as might Saturn’s chalk-dust lines within a prism’s bent-light paradigm falling together, meeting hastily and then dispersing into nothingness once witnessed collision's distortions these guileless verses, whispered into the heart ...
Carried on the Wind
He walked with a peculiar gait. First, his knees would creak forward, then his feet would whip compliantly into place, frightened to be left behind, scuffing the gravel with each odd step. The rest of his body did not move, except as carried forward stiffly by his wayward legs. I ...
iron gates of black
up the road paved, pocked, and grayed or down it, a bit near the tall-grass deer field once a farm now marked-- ‘land for sale’ in peeling, red-paint letters flattened upon a square-post wooden sign towers-- a stone home atop a slim, emerald hill’s incline the house, several times larger ...
escape
'twasn't faith which taught me of it which made me a believer 'twasn't religion’s fiction 'twasn't even love-- for all its doubtful shadows 'neath its amber-glisten shimmer 'twas pain, absence's remembrance that first time this, my soul, be known-- again heavy, with sorrow wordless, within its well of tears those ...
