Saturday, July 25, 2015

Heart hunger

complete in hunger
heart's belly growls
the burn of yearn
bellows within
pumping valves and tubes

manifest destiny
of lone nights
waking rendezvous
of spent wonder
in passing could have beens

words regretted
spin and dangle
from cable ties
cinched up tight
around the gasping blood drum

emptied larder
heart's belly growls
eating what's left
serving up itself
at a fancy banquet for one

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Am hurt

vinyl turning
the stepping notes into
each voice and key change
turning, screwing, fucking
ear drums

inclinations of those wants
strummed out on guitar strings
dancing over piano keys
tiny senoritas

twirling dress
in breezy sultry afternoons
that kiss the salt in the air
and palm tree erections
of friends

sands spill
off creased cotton and skin
yet sweat and ocean won't let go
what eyes gladly release in
early mornings

not found
in weed and orgy states
nor in oils and stretched canvas
nor in turning vinyl but
in free fall

Saturday, July 18, 2015

A trip

lament the lines that pass us by
endless white stretches
disappearing in the distance
up in front and behind

the scarring paths across the dirt
who draw their knives
and bleed the wanderer dry

they are the thieves of ancient trade
and look for loot
in soulless waves

to pillage those far from home

ravaging the tumbleweeds...

the feathers...

the alone

Thursday, July 16, 2015

The chamber

a chamber entombed in cold earth
stone walls inhale the echoes
of the soil beyond their reach

the chamber hosts a slender chair
and allows entry through a
short creaking wooden door

opposite the chair drools
a mirror down the wall
a silver pool stretched, suspended
a flayed reflection tanning in the dark

and what one will willingly witness
as he sits and waits and peers within
the silver sheen and veil

a single flame lights the way into
the depths of a slithering tale

shadows spill upon the floor at the
feet of the biding witness in the chair
the shadows pull and bind together
in a twisting mass of coiling hair

the lines then reflect in the little
flame's low light a hint of
reptilian scaly skin and form

slithering away from the feet and
into the hollow void that is the mirror
the serpent raises within the void
to gaze and smirk at the willing witness

from the corner of the tiny cell
races down on eight spindles of legs
an arachnid whose shadowy shape
ebbs and flows over the surfaces it rambles

a sudden jump and the spider joins
the standing snake within the darkened void

from overhead a darkness passes on wings
the rat of night who feasts on creeping
crawling things in the chill of moonlight

the sudden gush passes through the witness
and into the void as the bat joins snake
and spider in the gruesome form taking hold

for there the serpent forms curving spine
and curled arachnid forms full cage of ribs
and span of bat forms outstretched arms

and willing waiting witness beholds
the glory of the void in dark and damp and dirt

the warmth of tiny flame casts its know
upon the mutated being of the void
to see the pale gray flesh and sharpened teeth

the ratty black hair and fingertip claws
the stabbing and slicing want of yellow eyes
that freeze the breath and choke the heart

and the waiting witness waits no more
and raises the flame to toast the vision
to peer further upon the glory of the void
and what one will willingly witness

as one pale gray foot follows another
out from the silvery sheen of the veil
to find the willing witness inches from
those yellow eyes that choke the heart

and witness willingly chooses to embark
for with a breath he steals away the light
and flies away into the void and the dark

Sunday, July 12, 2015


the soil lingers beneath
her fingernails, nestled
between the flesh of
fingertip and unkempt keratin

gloves never suited
her earthworm like
fingers that reveled in
feeling the moist soil
against their skin

when she reaches
within the holes her
ravenous hands excavate
she becomes the force
behind earth and birth

she has watched her
fellow flower enthusiasts
hover as viceroys and
painted ladies over
the pots of nursery stock

they sip from pools
of gossip, a drink she
has always found bitter
as it has been mostly
thrown in her face

their words are as
that of the hummingbird's
flapping wings and they
drink and pick and prod petals

allure has mostly distracted
her from tame potted plants
and she instead looks for
specimens of the ditch

the fiery head of dock
waving slender clover arms
protruding and silver
thorns of purple thistles
these of the wild excite her

they are her feral lovers
that beckon to her
in the sun scorched heat
and sticky skin afternoons

and she dare not bring
them home with her but
rather savor them where
their roots run deep into
the moist soil that lingers
beneath her fingernails

Friday, July 10, 2015

Jargon jaunting: part bubble to trouble

she traveled the world
flying high, blue sky
in her wind blew bubble, bubble
she traveled the world

she scolded the world
sinking low, cold snow
within a blue bible, bible
she scolded the world

she perplexed the world
preaching long, numb throng
her windy blah babble, babble
she perplexed the world

she balanced the world
tipping late, fixed hate
windiest woo wobble, wobble
she balanced the world

she parted the world
leaving all, last call
when in true trouble, trouble
she parted the world

Thursday, July 9, 2015


a cavern shut up from the light of day
a cavern saturated in dark and grey

the hollow insides where time has burrowed
where water tickles the stones it sowed

emptied, this pocket from the shifting earth
bare tomb for death or womb for birth

rise the pillars with rooted calcium ore
adulterated figures posing across the floor

their dance, the slightest movement of matter
their life, the slightest touch will shatter

they sip, as we have, of primordial brew
and toast to the old ancients renewing anew

within a cavern starved of the light of day
a cavern of dripping rock, of frozen clay

Monday, July 6, 2015

Swing of sword

a pen, the spear
the sword they swear
swings here and there
in biblical times of old

but I still swing that sword
though it be laden
with curses of childhood
and strengths too weak
to word, I swing it still!

it is the sword of truths
known of my tongue
and heart and heats
the lamp I carry out
into the dark and unsaid

the letters, the lines
the pages that unfurl
from the Mecca far within
from the river running deep
coursing through the
temple's tomb where I
buried pomp and incense
and crosses that messiahs
had climbed off of when they
found no further use of

my prophets are the poets
who speak of the world poured
from their hearts, that shines
from their witness
their verse are the sacred texts
that continue to whirl
around the cycles of suns
into the eternal and inevitable

Saturday, July 4, 2015

Right ear

thump, thump thump
of the beat in the ear
as it waits, waits, waits
for a call drawing near

beep, beep, beep
of the phone in the ear
as it signals the call
of a voice drawing near

blah, blah, blah
speaks a voice in the ear
as it yaks, yaks, yaks
from a lip and a sneer

roll, roll, roll
of the eyes from the ear
listening to the call
it wishes it didn't hear

roar, roar, roar
is the whine in the ear
it brews and it bubbles
as a full glass of beer

yip, yip, yip
still the bark in the ear
voice gripes, gripes, gripes
from the pain in the rear

sigh, sigh, sigh
are ghosts avoiding ear
who fall from the breath
from the eye falls a tear

drips, drips, drips
leaky mouth in the ear
a minute turns to ten
turns to a week and a year

click, click, click
sudden sounds in the ear
the call must have dropped
great relief, even cheer

Monday, June 29, 2015

Abysmal dark

deep in dirt their hands
reach down in abysmal dark
the absent color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
from the ancients of ancients
who swam in squalor puddles
absorbing into the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
from steel trunks into choking
lungs, depleted the elemental
that rose from whose hands
reach down in abysmal dark

whose hands have reached
the puddles that remain from
remains settled in silted time
the grime the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
into young arisen of the dirt
where hands still reach into
abysmal dark and cavernous days
the ravenous haze lingers
yet and swirls into the lungs
that turn into the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
from chariots and trading
caravans and shooting comets
polluting, vomits, gasping
reaching into the abysmal dark

deep in the dirt they gnaw
calcium grinding calcium stones
whose bones pick teeth
and teeter as buried temples
where flesh and blood have
flown into the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
for light, for words, for young
arising from the dirt where
hands dig deep into the dark
to forget, to remember, to
turn into the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
and rises to fall upon the cold
the older than the old who
no longer remain as remains
within the abysmal dark