Election

The world is falling at my feet

Funny how the pieces look like skin,
leprous from a dying man; the disease
of boils that is the human condition.

The rain is like acid on my face

spit from the bile ducts of angry men,
thrown into the pit, dumb and blind,
and told to stand and make decisions.

No good can come of this

abandoning our better instincts for a bandage
called guile, adult babies sucking pacifiers
filled with opiates, attempting to deny impotence.

Lunatics are falling at my feet

screaming incoherent; oracles quick copy
all their meaningless utterances, selling
them to postulates as dogma truth.

The populace simpers and slobbers at their feet

grateful for the release, the numbing sensation
as the drugs take over, the stasis calm that comes
from the panacea of no longer having to think.

Dying Alive

Life was hanging jagged
on the last limb, waiting
for the Fall, wanting to flutter
away before the coming cold of Winter.

We stared at all the signs,
billboards counting down
Doomsday minutes, our eyes
forever surrendering to "Buy more Coke".

And we mainlined corn syrup,
hoping for a new recipe, our
final betrayal seeming simply Classic.

My lips moved as you passed the bottle,
mouthing platitudes in the drunken dawn,
anything to make the coming daylight bright,
a reason for waking to another day.

You wheezed a phlegm plagued cough,
a sign of tubercular rumblings, deep in
your throat to bring words out breathing:

"I think I'm dying".

I glanced at our surroundings;
the needles of sun highlighting
the ruin of our days, smoke
cascading, frozen in the chilling room.
I grabbed your empty head, proof against meaning,

"Honey, we all die sometime".

Goodbye

Swimming amniotic, already
learning impermanence,
digits splayed in defiant wave,
precursor of goodbye.

They come and go, a human
classroom where everything
is taught by fist to chin;
we mouth the words in painful
recitation, stumbling on goodbye.

And when we fail the yearly tests,
consigned to corners wearing the dunce's
cap, the cuckold's horns and wattles,
traces of fingers on our arms and faces,
we suffer the sing song litany of goodbye.

Sneak through alleyways, along bright corridors
where people pray to sun, denying the dark
passages where losers run to say goodbye.

Warehouses of thrown away humanity,
shuffling, hands outstretched in mournful
calamity, trapped detention, shamble
gaited zombies searching for goodbye.

And I am the arrogant student, philosopher
of the dark arts, pins and needles and tiny dolls,
extracting vengeance for the word goodbye.

What We're Taught/What We Learn

We pass on the dogma of the ages.

Benevolent gods bestowing gifts
on obedient souls, concepts of
Heaven and Hell for good little boys
and girls who keep their panties
clean and don't shit where they eat.

We pass on the execution of morales

Please don't look behind the curtain,
there's only a non-descript shooting
his way through his veins and arteries;
giggling maniac lost in mists and mirrors
smiling down on innocents tomorrow in
immaculate long sleeved shirt.

We pass on what they taught us.

Slinking down alleys, and knocking
on back doors, aliases used to get what
we need, one book for company, another
in a key locked box, never mix the bright
gold keys, hide one in an unknown crevasse

and never, NEVER get caught.....

Construct

Time is a construct, seeming intelligent,
marked by decay and atrophy, the shortest
distance between two differing vantage points.

Measured as the distance of an angel's
wing span, divided by the stretch of
an invisible God, ticking off the birth
and death of stars, a million orbits
'round the nucleus of an atom.

Subtract the devils on a pin's thin head,
the square root of sands forced through
the glass, the miles of souls laid brow to
toe 'til they reach the end of celestial journeys.

And time is a construct , a meaningless measure.


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Fair Weather

Sun's slivers peek through the brightening canopy

and puddles turn to Lilliputian lakes.
Flower shake water from their hard,
cool baths, strectching, catching rays
to dry their rain drenched leaves.

She still sees blackening horizons.

There will be no blue skies here, only
the far off thunder of the next accusation,
lighting flashes of insinuation, ever-growing
lists of things she could have, should have,

did not do.

This is not the season of the fair weather,
rather the dark hours of his verging
dis-content, when absense of the pocket
jingle bodes ominous tides in coming days.

She tiptoes round her clear sky lover

noticing cataracts clouding eyes, navigating rocks
as rancor surges rapid in his monsoon orbs.
He adored her in the rosy dawn of Sprintime
meadows, heady kisses stolen in a blissful moment
cornicopia ever full and spilling out upon the table.

Throwing seed away while others planted

leaving fields fallow in the Summer's heat;
remnants of the Autumn harvest bent and sickened
like the ever shrinking larde behind pantry doors.
But still he twirled her, dancing 'neat the soltice
night, whispering assurances under spells of July moon.

And now she is his reason and his damning blame

His summer sunshine smile shrinks in this land of rain...

Shoes

(This is not about Donald Trump, Lindsay Lohan, The Excomony, Barak Obama, or Paris Hilton.)


I stuffed them with newspapers

the local edition and the New York
Times, and when that wouldn't do I tried
the Daily Mirror, having heard it made
the optimum fodder for situations such as these.

His name was flashing in the headlines
incredible feats of daring do, moving
mountains with the power of his voice.
He spoke softly and enemies dropped
their weapons, loudly and they felt ashamed.

Guiding the tribes with a wave of his hand,
factual lies in pliant ears, give them just
a little truth and it can't hurt them; they
threw flowers, kissed his size 18 feet,
lips blackened but unbelievably satisfied.

His legend grew with every news bite, hyperbole
run rampant on the printed page, words falling
over themselves in their search for superlatives;
people bowing and scraping as a means of closeness.

When I could not read one more word of it, I packed
paper down deep in the toes, finding it still strangely
uncomfortable; toes slapping with each careful step,
my gait stilted like a brain damaged clown.

It will be very hard to fill these shoes.


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The Innocents

(This is not about Obamacare, Wall Street, Human Rights, Fidel Castro, Or Hugo Chavez)

This is not the soldier

here in this plastic bag holding
a piece here, another there,
tossed into Hefty, stuffed in a
flag draped furniture box, sent
home so Mom and Dad might
have something to remember.

Buried in a sea of crosses, Stars
of David and myriad gods, man-made
holy arms to hold that which cannot
be held, wilting flowers, dying like
the blush of youth, sacrificed for useless
causes, for we never remember this one
fact; they died so that no one else had to.

But we send them back again and again

human lives too short for history,
which will always repeat

as long as there are still innocents born.


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The Fall

How was I to know?

He told me he was driving
to the mountains; a short
climb to breath clear air and
revel in the change of seasons.

He said how he loved the brilliant
colors; he waxed melancholy
at the coming of the chill, that lonely
feeling when the year approaches end.

There were cliffs where you could
touch the eagles, he said; a place
to leave it all behind, soar like falcon
flight when you felt your life adrift.

"Will you take a lunch?" I asked.

Replying that he wouldn't need one,
he waved, and took off down the driveway,
(I waved right back, unconcerned)
not knowing I'd replay the Fall
in Technocolor slo-mo until end of days,

for how was I to know?


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Look Back Running

Was I ever that young?

We loved as if we had forever,
danced lithe bodies through
the torid nights; kisses that
left dark wounds of sex and
the thrill of unmet violence,
loved like that was all there was.

We ate rough noodles that tasted
like golden silk, drank cheap wine
as if ambrosia, washed the sheets every
day, all we owned, dank with flesh heat
and the perfume of pugeant pheronomes.

And the more we aged the less we had.

No free nights while the wind blew chill
but hot with human furnace, just fine foods
too easilly gotten that melted in our mouths,
forgotten, stumbling in, full of cellared vintage,
but empty with still nagging cares, acquisitons
hung on busy walls, and we worried about the keeping,

Apart but dreaming of our brilliant selves,
porcelein dolls in the blinding light of love
and passion, racing through timeless
years now not nearly so endless.
And we stare so at the relentless clock hands;

were we ever that young?

And will we ever be again?

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When You're Insane

When you're insane
everyday is new, and the voices
keep you company, speaking
in tongues you understand,
insights imported into compartments
of the mind; a sense of wonder

follows you, carries you. You leave
reality far behind, entering a world
of finger colors and pupil touch, smelling
words as delicate bouquets, blood nail
written on invisible walls, fascination
with red drop saliva flowing on a clear page.

And you grab clouds, squeeze them dry;
paint by numbers grass and flowers, seen
in integers, x never equals what they say it does.

But you know the answer

and the answer is whatever you say,
a consensus of many, and one; you
were born undone, and you like it this way

because real can be so boring....



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Evolution

There was a time her body yearned for touch,
the internal explosion of his skin on hers, lips,
arms, legs, hips; moments when the universe slowed,
only becoming flow at the resumption of contact.

There was a time when she would do anything,
trust in his motives, revel in the sense of doing;
knowing he was pleased with her, sensing his
satifaction when she followed his lead where
ever, what ever, he would think to suggest.

But now she searches far to find the love she
had, the trust that was implicit, the faith that
he would never hurt her. She finds excuses
not to touch, for it only heightens her sense
of wrongness, of the things she now finds lacking.

She knows everything he did was for him, not her,
and that he never did try to protect her. Selfish
when she was giving, closed where she was open,
inner laughter bubbling at the thought of her sacrifice.

"Do you love me?" he asks.
"Of course I do."

But she wonders if she does, and if he knows.

The answer, she thinks, is no.....and yes.


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Evolution

There was a time her body yearned for touch,
the internal explosion of his skin on hers, lips,
arms, legs, hips; moments when the universe slowed,
only becoming flow at the resumption of contact.

There was a time when she would do anything,
trust in his motives, revel in the sense of doing;
knowing he was pleased with her, sensing his
satifaction when she followed his lead where
ever, what ever, he would think to suggest.

But now she searches far to find the love she
had, the trust that was implicit, the faith that
he would never hurt her. She finds excuses
not to touch, for it only heightens her sense
of wrongness, of the things she now finds lacking.

She knows everything he did was for him, not her,
and that he never did try to protect her. Selfish
when she was giving, closed where she was open,
inner laughter bubbling at the thought of her sacrifice.

"Do you love me?" he asks.
"Of course I do."

But she wonders if she does, and if he knows.

The answer, she thinks, is no.....and yes.


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Frost

I'm counting down the days

glimpses at the calendar bring dismay,
the wheel turning, turning againt my head
as grindstone to the chaff. I think I've heard
it said that it will end in fire, but reconsider, Mr.
Frost, that is NOT what anyone would desire.

Being so right at mending fences, and other
matters of the heart, I've stopped in your woods
countless times, always deciding to move on. But
now I've stumbled upon relentless heat, layer upon
layer burning away, a 16 month stay of execution.

But I think I've found an very 'nice' solution.

My shoulders turn at the very mention, and if all beings
follow, our intentions will be clear, a distinct chill in the air;
stear love inward, and the cold rush of hate without. For
then I have no doubt the world will have to end with ice.

So smoke if you've got 'em, drink to excess, freeze those
anxious tears hard on your face in glacial expression,

and the icy glaze of depression will suffice.



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Paralax

I don't know who I am.

Am I the naive newborn,
dropped head first into chaos
and tasked to learn some unknown
lesson? A journey that will take
a lifetime(s), each birth another
question on an endless quiz?

I don't know where I am.

Each universe a fragment of our soul
passing through the menbrane of time,
time coalescing into different suns
until we come together in a blaze of light.

Am I merely another seeker of the ultimate?

Then I will reach my hands through corporeal
tissue, tearing out the fragile soul; grow
it in a petri dish, flung far into parallax view

And maybe then I'll find the answers.

The Voices

This is the voice of sadness

following me through these dirty streets
the smell of contagion ripe in my nostrils,
discordant music rifling through my brain;
it finds a spot to sink claws into, and rips away.

All the time this presence fills me with
incredible fluids, leaking out faulty
tear ducts with dogged tenacity, but
never enough to set me free. Dark
laughter presses down on me; there
is nothing funny about this camel's weight.

This is the voice of contention

screaming in the brightest sun of things
I might have, should have, couldn't have done;
black/white, up/down, until my mind is a
sideways bump that people drive over way too fast.

Something bursts inside my ear, this is the sound of freedom;
banishment of the voices, in slashing motions I
cut them down, warn them off, this war has got to end.
So I push them roughly, hard, out of my way

They might come back tommorrow, but oh, no, not today....


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A Dream of Home

You cannot go home again

unless you open up your brain,
memory spilling out onto once empty
streets, ghosts calling out your name,
smiles stamped on synapses. Sidewalks
unfurl like a tongue come out to play,
leading to the sandbox, swings, and childish games.

But nothing ever is the same;

Flowers wilted on the stem, pictures
somehow moved within the homesite,
gnarly trunks where saplings use to be.
Voices speaking within tunnel vision;
the myopia of the years turning
everything to sepia colored photographs

For what is this thing called 'Home" anyway?

The years rain down like chalk dust,
sawdust from the desk on which you carved
your name, your lessons never really learned;
all you do is grasp thin air where once a loved
one stood. All you can do today is mourn, and yearn.

And age will see you missing people more and more.


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Pyschiatria

Don't bother looking it up

I know what it is. You'll discover
all the words of mania, the process
of neuroses, a slight dash of phrenia,
perhaps. Add a phobia and let it brew;

I'm sure I'll make a fine stew.

If you find me bouncing in the halls
there is no need to get a pad, I've seen
the writings on the wall, and some
of them are good, and others bad.

Then there are some who find me rather mad

but I would never find my madness sin;
it is a way of coping in an insane world,
and crazy's just a way of fitting in.


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Dancing

You were a new tune
played on an old victrola;
tinny, hard to understand,
(but I gave it a 75, it was easy to dance to).

You took my hand (and stepped on my feet)
leaving footprints on my soul
that followed me around; asking
"Where is the music? Where IS it?"

but I never found the song.

I listened to so many stations
spinning the dial manically;
DJ's touting miracle drugs
guaranteed to ease the pain

and they never did.

I tried to dance but never
learned the steps, looked into
eyes but never found the way,
burned with sweat but never
loved the deed, unsatisfied

I took my loneliness to bed

while the notes would dance around
my head. I heard them in the whispers
on the street, I searched for them
in everyone I'd meet. until my steps
would finally drum the beat of someone
walking down the wide expanse who

whistled in my ear familiar notes
that told a tale of understanding
pain, you smiled, and took my hand;

and then we danced again.

140

There are no secrets left in this world.

The naive tell it all,
whowhatwhenwherehow and with whom,
TMI in 140 characters or less.

Hooray for the age of (non)sense

Little birds Tweeting for crumbs,
mobile phone pics of each and
every twig, piece of string put
out as theory while the eggs fry alone.

Keep your sunny side up

while your bridges are built
on social sites, one virus
scan away from being rode over

by the mouse that roars.

Forgive me if I don't say
what I had for breakfast today.
I find it all (a)waste anyway;
you just end up red in the face,
forever flushed. I keep my secrets
in a delicate retrieval system...

It's called MY BRAIN.

4 1/2

I don't want to be stuck in the lower depths

blown warm by affront to my
sensibilites, or frozen out
by a chill from the north,
playing with depressions
that might kill the canary
in the coal mine island; black
soot in the blizzard like snow.

I don't ever want to be too high

jumping from one piece of fluff
to another, thinking I can fly;
one thump of thunder and I'm
falling

...............falling

.................................falling

down to Earth like over-weight hail,
smashed to bits by presumptuousness;
the way all the high and mighty
are eventually slapped back to normal size.

It's best for me to find my own equalibrium

here on cloud 4 1/2.




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Flypaper

Hi, Fly.

Sugar water on the table,
escapee from the local web
and I the one what sprung him;

Fly, I.

To know is to love.
Don't need a doo bee
to catch a buzz;

My Fly.

Not being a gullible guy,
there's not much I'll swallow,
spider, fly, and I
live in harmon-I;

I don't know why...


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Muscatel

Sour grapes.

I chew them all the day long,
bursting like cheap Muscatel
on my dry lips, staining my teeth
a royal purple, and isn't that a dainty
dish? Crunching like the bones of blackbirds

suspended on the wire

seeming immune to the crackles of static
that are my words across the telphone
lines. You never wanted change, preferring
being stationary to being mobile; so your
lifeline lies across your hallway desk,
awaiting the Imperial Summons.

I hear the tolling of the bells

wanting so badly to say "Bite me"

and I try, but your mail is already full.

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The Martyr

She bled all over the white carpet

gasping and moaning all the while;
but when I ran to help her up, her
hunched, pale body wouldn't budge,
her bloodless fingers wrapped around
a sponge and heavy, soapy bucket.

"Don't worry about me, I'll be alright."

The light is bad, the house too cold,
the house too hot, it's far too silent,
far too loud, and pink is blue, then blue
is pink, her garden growing so contrary;
I'd paint her colors as she pleased, but

"Oh, no no, don't worry about me."

washing dishes in ice cold water, trying
hard to be efficient, taking thirty minute
showers, creeping up so silent, 'til I hear
her mournful breathing, pregnant pauses,
heaving sighs, the Martyr with her broken
lance. I try to make her burdens light, but

"Oh, no no, I'll be alright."


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Murdered Muse

At times my spirit wonders at
my murdered Muse, (in)secure
in her six foot crepe; gag mouldering
these many years as it crumbles,
long past its days of usefulness.

And who would strangle such a beast?

Rattling chains forever in the strobe light night,
hands eternally grasping, lips upon my ear
whispering, whispering, interrupting dreams
incessant with her myriad demands, thrusting
pen into my feverish fingers, robbing sanity,
smoke and mirrors brandishing a false bravado

"You are NOTHING without me"....

and I, like any supplicant, obeyed. Until the
wakefulness made prisms of my eyes, unable
to separate fact from lies, sentences dripping
guile, and all the while she plied my brain
for her inevitable feast, supping at my
groaning board; she claimed herself the chef

and I the one to wield the carving knife

that sent the vengeful muse into her grave,
the poseur rightful vanquished, and I, saved.


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105 in the Shade

She's 105 in the shade.

Still dreaming, still flirting with the
intern that comes in every evening,
(How can he take her blood pressure when it's flying?)
Black-haired stud with the body of Luficer
long before he grew horns, she closes
her eyes and feels feathers against her cheeks,
bob flapping, doing the shimmie shimmie
down in Charleston, all rhinestone sparkle
and blue-eyed winks for the slicked down Jazz Boys.

Up to new York and a meeting with Zeigfeld

And it was bathroom hooch and silk stockings,
a dangerous glimpse of garter, how fast she was
in the Rumble Seat, sweat matching the beads
in her head dress, cigarette un lit in the holder,
Tallulah on steriods, and she didn't have to utter a sound.

Dancing with kings for pearls and ermine

Turning down their rough proposals, for she had time....

She had time......

"Dolly? Miss Dolly? Time for dinner."

She's 105 in the shade, and now all she has is time.....



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Well Read

I read of the Revelation

666 and the Four Horsemen,
Christ Anti birthed from the ashes,
bodies rising in the crisp, molten air
(Clothing optional)

I read about Adam and Eve

the apple tree with the "Do Not Touch"
sign, the talking snake and Lillith in
the background, succubus grinning
while her lover employed sweet talk
(did he speak with forked tongue?)

I've also seen THE SIGNS

God Hates Fags,
If you ain't for us, you're agin us,
Those who won't accept Christ as their
Savior will surely burn in HELL......

I've also read Grim's Fairy Tales
and I don't believe THOSE either.

Concepts

"One" is a concept

followed by an endless series
of numbers, equations about nothing,
security for the wary, proof that
we are smarter than the lower animals.

"Self" is an arrogant claim

remembering visions in polished surfaces,
staring at the tossing of mane, a nod and
a wink for a dead horse we beat with hard
bone clubs, declaring our beauty and uniqueness.

We walk alone is ever growing crowds

marching with the other lemmings, turning
feet this way and that in a farce of clevernes;
all the while running nearer to the cliff dive
like every other seeming "Individual".

And we all fall the exact same way

backs breaking, brains spilling, eyes wide shut;

splash of blood against the rocks

Routine

The gloves feel tight against her fingers

The comfort of laytex surronds her hands
like a warm blanket; security in plastic,
pulled over her long sleeves that end
in a turtle-neck, tucked into slim jeans
under boots and thick crew socks.

Stand up, one foot, one foot, turn around.

10 steps to the door, touch knob,
one turn two turns..........interruption.
Turn, 10 teps back to bed, turn, 10 steps
back to door, knob, touch, turn once, twice
three times, open, two steps, close, twelve
steps to stairway, 14 steps to the landing.

30 steps to kitchen, coffee, two toasts, three pats of butter, one egg.

Scrub, clean, wipe ech plate 5 times, magical
numbers that keep her safe, open, close, open cabinet,
amonia, bleach (but never together) because she's
never liked couples touching each other.

Dust, place each item at exact 90 degree angle
Routine after lunch, routine after dinner,
60 minutes of television, same channel, same time
never handle the dirty tuner, germs are everywhere
We're all going to die!

Check locks 3 times, check windows 4 times,
56 steps to the landing, 14 steps to the top,
12 steps to the bedroom door, turn knob, turn knob
turn knob, 10 steps to bed, turnturnturn, covers down,
covers up, covers down, right leg up, left leg up,
covers up, covers down covers up, light off.

9 hour of sleep, then do it again....

Good Enough??

I don't have to be good anymore.

Good is Pollyana bending
over for the White Rabbit,
who kept looking at his watch
all the time, never really understanding
the concept of hairless white expanse anyway.

Good is Clara's bow lips, painted
on smile for the male members;
it's easy to perform in the dark
when that tinny piano plays. You
just move your mouth and the
director puts his own words into it.

If there are (dust) bunnies on the floor
it's because I set them free, sweeping
the area to find Fudd, deciding it's time
to jump the gun and go Elmer hunting.

No one will be saved

Because I don't care a bit about good anymore.

Hell, I'm having a hard enough time with adequate.



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Two Sisters

Alice and Godzilla birthed twins,
then the lizard swallowed, taking
Alice and everything she ever was;
for females always DO become Daddy's girls.

Chips off the old block of brimstone, they grew
up crooked sturdy, bodies that beguiled, voices
like harpies, keeping well quiet until the tender
trap was sprung, bread and butter forever stolen
from those whose brains were where they shouldn't be.

Yellow brick roads set aflame, the Scarecrow
wore asbestos, the Tin Man searched for his
stolen heart; the lion too cowed to say anything.

If ever Dorothy stepped over the rainbow, she would
have found just ashes and rain, the sisters having long
ago ravaged the City and stolen the ending's gold.

From nowhere came insanity's embodiment, minds
filled with poisons they turned on each other, houses
shuddering in their wake, splintering from mindless rage;
the survivors stumbled out, and tried to explain

One came from the West, the other the East.



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Tree

Little twig that I was, so new,
so green; my roots not even
dug deep yet, just letting toes
sink into cool fresh Earth.

Spring lay high upon the hillside,
waiting for me to sprout, shoots
bearing flowers bearing fruit; the
Summer sun was safe and warm.

What rains that came were brief and soft,
dewdrops against willowy skin, making
bright prisms against verdant leaves.

There were times of Fall, when change came
quickly, turning colors with the touch of chill;
dire tidings foretold the bitter edge of Winter.
~
I stand naked now beneath the snowy blanket,
memories sharp and clear now keep me company;
the knowledge of aged wood burns hot until the
days of smoke and ash, scattered for the worms.



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Rose's Comet Comes Every 40 Seconds

I keep my self worth in an account
vault on the Planet Pluto, devalued
when the space dreck lost its Triple A
rating; owing to the fact that it was
no longer designated a planet.

DAMN the Recession!

Time to cash my chips in, brother,
scoot along the Milky Way to Vegas,
Baby! Put the wad on 00, and
see what the hell comes up this time.

Oh, crap!

My capacitator's on the fritz, my bonds
cashed in for Swiss Euro's, nobody knows the
trouble I've been; it took months to find my
worth is really measured in the flux from
conflicting alternates, and ain't that a Big Bang

In my travels Across the Universes.



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If You See Jesus On the Side of the Road....

I met Jesus on the side of the highway

Sporting a bit of road rash,
having been unceremoniously
dumped from a moving car;
people get nervous when you
claim you're the son of God.

Wearing a loincloth didn't help,
nor did his insistance on bringing
his cross along. They said the
extra weight slowed the car down.

I walked beside him for a little while,
then found he really cramped my style
with the colorful rooster he had on his
shoulder; Cadillacs laughing as they splashed
on by, three before the bird crowed thrice.

And I asked him what he was doing
here; he told me that Buddha had
another engagement and he was just
taking his place. (Gods do that for one
another from time to time, I guess).

Though I knew then that I was supposed to kill him, I decided
to tell him to take his cross, his cock and get the Hell out of here.

I figured Jesus had enough problems....


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Grave matters

The holes get a tiny bit bigger every day.
I hide the dirt piles everywhere; in china
teacups, metal sauce pans, stuffed in
pockets where it seeps out from the frayed
fabric, making trails down the streets I walk each day.

Washing never takes away the stain, black
underneath the nails, red clay tinting my hand
a dark umber, teasing me with hints of what
will surely be my future, my final resting place.

Where I go, the devil finds me, following
the tracks I leave, waiting, stern and patient,
for the time I lay my body down, the hole
well dug, deep dug, and now, at last, complete.

Until then, I dig a little every day,
but I use a very small spoon.



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The Last Excorcism

My body plays a curious tune, bumps
and thumps from the inside, as if
something sinister is thrashing beneath
the tender skin. Imprisoned with cries
and moans, it forces hands to clench,
head to twist around malleable neck,
not stopping at the usual ninety degree
angles of complacent, saner people.

Whispering through my head, suggestions
of foul deeds and wanton depravity, turning
sly eye winks at passersby; my finger crooks
uncontrollably, and I must do her bidding.

She will not be expelled from my writhing self,
having been placed by a partnership surviving
eons, yet always giving the notion of mutual hate
and disgust; merely a bright show for those of
us who prefer rough fantasy to the terrible truth.

And so the puppet dances a jerky hurdy gurdy,
sparks flashing, arms flying, singing in tongues
for the amusement of Immortals. My still cognizant
parts gaze at the scene of the awful crime

the Red and White gods clapping their hands in glee.


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Sad House

This old house creaks and grumbles

Secrets lost amongst her myriad cracks.
No smiles shine through the murky windows;
gloom is the foundation of her brick and mortar.

Lost lives have floundered here, rattling
chains between the walls and insulation,
nibbled by rats both rodent-like and human,
man's soul being the most virulent form of pest.

At night strange cries emanate, ancient words
with no Rosetta Stone, the sound of wringing hands
and blood drip, for family wields a bitter knife,
and twists much harder than any common thief.

A sad house, she, who covers her wounds in bright
paint, a primer for how to hide the bitter truth; lies
sliding far more easily between these flaking walls.


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Cat

Shoreline, riverbank.

Lapping with tiny wet cat tongue
against pebbles and sunken roots,
gentle scratch of fine, fine sandpaper
tickles toes and wading ankles.

Dark clouds, feline grows.

Tongue grows large, tickle becomes
grind, tiger is hungry, nibbling at
the tender bank sprouts, now ravenous,
with appetite for destruction; all is
swallowed in insatiable binge, digested
and spit against pilings that cannot help
but fall against the killer's onslaught.

We clean up the morbid crime scene.

The tiger becomes kitten once again,
rubbing soft fur against our bare legs,
beguiling with its whispery mewls.



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Enemies

Good friends are counted on the tender digits of your own two hands.

But enemies? Ah, enemies.
Savor the rich aroma of animosity,
brewing the elixer you drink right down;
gather the grounds to percolate another pot.

Keep your eyes behind your back,
hindsight to catch the random back stab,
thrust and parry is an elegant game;
counter what they think with what you know

For knowledge can be a terrible tool.

And pity the fool who makes enemies friends.
I've seen it happen again and again, glib words
mistaken for honesty while revenge cools, awaiting
a more convenient time, aging a too fine wine
to vinegar housed in a beautiful cask, the bitterness
hidden for a time behind an actor's mask.

I keep my friends close, my enemies closer;
fenced in as proof against tomorrow,

As I make new enemies with every passing day.

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