Poetry

promise me, son that you’ll feel– the hawks’ umber-wing September-shrill that you’ll learn the voices the deathless legions borne upon her solitary cry as it slices open a reticent sky top, split from bottom east, from west north, from south each, again halved– and within each space another world, gifted if we’d dare its grace, […]

where once we’d walked together climbing over our wooded-path stones now, love, we live walking these paths, alone distant, our villages finding ourselves sheltered in different planes of existence tho neither of us higher nor lower than the other aye, nor be we beside despite our differing history quite nearly belying even those daring moments […]

a few key-turns and a mash of the rubber pedal she started right up, eager– front wheels spinning with zealous fervor spinning freely, in the black-morning air going nowhere after a while, I realized the car was perched up on a bent lamppost the windshield, smashed on the driver’s side bloody the crash, right next […]

in the drip-paint barn to the south, and slightly west of the mountain-house he’d built there were hundreds of glass trinkets small, abstract sculptures and such– glittering baubles that he’d blown of molten shimmer aye, the small ways we fill– the red swelter of our days still, I had to throw them all away after […]

crawling in the garden its stinging tail, twitching long, and pointed such anger such compulsion to injure a murderer’s quiet rage jailed behind tiger-hide stripes black bands painted upon saffron leaving me curious, and fearful I watched as it twitched my skin chilled under summer’s red zeal knowing– if it came at me if it […]

the age of a soul never known by time’s ticking animus thus, without measure only this flesh– burns to ash under the pyre’s spiraling swelter and an expiry thus, just more dust, scattered but shall we ever return? the way Benny was screaming his hoary desperation into the tall night aye, into the deafened desert […]

sunshine-summer love we’d deserved more than what we’d taken of this dusty place that poverty which we’d accepted our souls, displaced we’d given enough– we haven’t much time here these amber days fall over swiftly still and when the moon is full laced, and sheer in its mist of tears too distant to capture on […]

Gray-haired wizards gave electric music to despair’s lonesome tone; we drank our ale from tall tin, and we listened– as the band played, and we later kissed, tresses pulled, then let slip ‘tween curled fingers’ grasp, white teeth nibbling– in a hunger, at last remembered, and within Midnight’s secluded palace, poetry’s chipped-sickle wraith, diminished, returned […]

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 hymns tho who’ve mumbled their […]