We Seek Chills

I remember the night we cried for reprieve in tears,
the hopes we sinned for, to slake our spines in chills,
each rapture falling closer to the elusive truth
convoluting the universe with our unworldly realms
of begotten knowledge to rend wet sea from reeling Earth.

The First Song I Knew

The waveforms billow, shrink, and swim
in gray inchoate stratas, hopes for seeing
deeper and feeling a soft brink as I
reached for some infinite inverted spire,
neither with hopes of ascending nor
of waking the entrance with woven brick
mosaics, birthing upside down Babble,
where each pierced that conscious below
and fell thrice deeper than scaffolded above.
Just a partial moment where the Music
Numbed louder than the window rending air.


RIP Chester Bennington, thank you for your air that I had the privilege of knowing as inchoate breath and new songs that gave me safety from the thrashings of puberty.  Thank you for a feeling deeper than understanding that lies beyond vexation, the feeling of being twisted past the senses and  passed to a numbness that softly extends to the void, a unformed passion that would overcome me and leave me like a spirit that held my heart strings and made me recall that death was so near as this pinnacle, a zenith where perception was nulled and oxygen was to be exited, that roar of combusted speakers drifting down a brown slush freeway with windows down and taillights out, an escape that you gave me first and foremost.  I can only hope for yours to be equal.

My New Crown

What fake unfortune have I to claim?
Our world of gray and decay to burst
with color from a well-angled glance or
to droop like a serum from an ascetics unfed
maw.  Neither caw nor home give me roost
nor destination, a war where comfort fails
and all things are pained, torn, familied in snow,
the cuts refusing in cold to shrink and sow,
each bleat of minor storm my chest enthralls
and gives to colors and faith what my head now holds.
Sacrosanct against that scourge of distance,
closed doors and denied dreamers of the poor,
where once ambition sits now guilt proudly fits,
to eternally pain myself myself to reign,
virtue they it so call but rather a weakling
crow with tattered wings of gray matter kings.

A Side Poem

The inlets of Corinth whose
vines of scepters spent in
raged dreams, like little
boy who that claimed their dreams
were true and their love
to never wander esset.
Iron affects with obsidian
habits, as if sharpness only
to the last comfort gave and
broken clouds split to spill
the secrets of heaven that
man nor beast nor universe could save.
they had neither will nor way,
merely to let pass those
parcels of wet shadows,
dregs, that we gleamed in pools
of Narcissist’s dreams,
in swelling forests with
only moss and hills to claim
that just rust may now brave
the breaches of kings whose
empty inlets sat like moss drenching caves.
p.p. Not up to snuff, but I’m a whore for your likes.

Liquid, the Stars and Night

Black the pith of memory walking,
a liquid abyss where ruins of Rome
shall heretofore swim, where ancient
chatter of a young cherub and swaddled
boy will laments its own losing and give
ways to riddles of day.  His wicked eyes of
wetness will to a glen depart, a pause from
knotted moss.  He will scamper with his
boots thrown -hidden- behind some tree,
he will break free the wretched roots of
that ceaseless verdant domain, his body
a crucifix, for he realized, all must rain.

Soothing Rotes

I woke on shores that teemed of days,
their pulchrit paths of tempest waves,
air filled with refuse that I winnowed
away. Hark the lyre and the soot rote
house that gave the spire its coat and
the waves its rinds, liquor like wine or
sweets that brine in windows of clerks
who all of their fresh-washed days spat,
like stones against shore that spoke and
swore of better times with fresher shores
and windless houses with eternal opened doors.

Wherefore Art Thou Now?

The gazette said I’d find you here,
curled up under the bridge of concrete
that kept you here.  Poets abandoned
the crates of time and filled minstrel
halls with their ugly voices unable to
mimic even a Meijer brand chime.
How sad that painters all paint on
Bamboo and all sculptures wear
masks of triangles.  Where our art
on another’s found, as trappings of
bits or bytes compress our favorite
sounds.  Before, so in template
imbued, that wicker baskets could
be molded from poetry’s muse,
painting a profound picture, sculpture
the likeness of man, the flesh to
the world of unerring stone turned.
Indelible still sits that soft mask of element
unbreached, unascended by man’s
pitter patter and ephemeral reach.

Per Paris

The folds of mirrors in window’s bound
played melodies on soft windowed clouds
that lit up the scarlet night into soft yellow
flames of mirthy delight.  Lightning tempted
night and each young lip of innocent timber
locked my gait, beauty as deep as the fall,
as sweet as the apple of knowing and never
known, the pain of biting, the birth of clothes.

Augur of Prague

Two spinnings of desire spooled,
as endless mobbings of tendrils
that so to Adam and Eve resemble
but did not adhere, my mind tan
tossed in the lows and highs of
crying spines with fallen homes.
I wepted for the creeking of old
boots that marched, wood blocks
with sand stuffed between shook
under each blow of changing guard.
The fragrance of past nights and
wreckage from the flight still haunt
the wallows and waves, that eddied
city’s raved with masks of starless
nights crested in broken time’s delight,
As born from a soon sightless man
that clogged the gears of time and
gave sun its climb and moon its shine,
as if a second sky lived in an old city’s tide.


God’s tears have all dried and
their water of crystaline courses
still swirl the earth with ehtereal
etchings of homes that are with
love and bowling fields of grape
seed from Bollensen’s breeds.
Their breeching of the day to
form in their arms a second sun
with brighter rays and sharper
tones, empty drums of concrete
could not spill a heart, nor dullness
envelope itself in a more heathen
clad suit, as if boredom and want
so slipped from the pockets of
despots, to spite the ages of suns
ever spinning in larger fields undone.