We were all ill prepared, a slim stem
rootless in firm ground; the door
opens on life without a sound, leaving debris
to piece together unknown realms.
Newborn, he grabbed for a flower,
and we as parents wonder in what ways
The petals will tear; as he grazes through days
what will he say is the story of his tower?
Transitions are doors to gated daffodil beds,
where foreseers, sprouting in Eden’s den, say
“Welcome to a piece of life!” Whose aim
is to discover sense — a drive to ascend.
Some say there is a golden ladder—
It’s secretly discussed by the press.
No paper covers or flatters,
As though the point should be put to rest.
Those who wrote of holy sin captured
What was told to the masses in jest
Since angels, weary of the Rapture,
Fled quick — mortality a failed test.
The laborers stuck to fight capture,
Sharpening blades for unholy raids
In attempts to destroy the ladder.
It’s said that those who’ve seen the flavors
At the top get rid of what matters
Since the rungs were their only savior.
Some say a boy once saw the structure,
Rushed to it, eager for splendor,
To find the ladder a render,
Practically a mirage with gold paint.
The top was boarded, though looked tender,
As if welcomed just if worth the rank.
These stories insist that the papers
Know the ladder is stained-over rust;
That capturers need a long line
So someone’s always behind.
A line has order like ladder rungs,
Keeping big eyes small, unrewindable.
Some say there is a golden ladder
Always a fingertip away.
I trust epic poets least of all,
they reject the hopelessness of life
favoring more dazzling locks.
Doors are scattered in resale
furniture shops. Entries are shelved
to collect dust: new money
laughs at uptights insisting
things aren’t made like before
as if forever isn’t a dreadful thing.
A ticking clock is melting in a brass melting pot.
A regime is falling, leaving the aristocrats
of before aching and fighting
not to be the peasants of tomorrow.
Mothers flip pancakes behind locked doors
and closed blinds, hearing nightmares
of the undead scathing malnourished nails
under a red moon; fear creeps into
the developments built yesterday.
Children watch zombie movies
behind picket fences, hiding under beds
when a knock comes at the door.
The monster underneath sits beside
as the mailman leaves the bills.
The paycheck is smaller,
and the envelopes are laughing
as Uncle Sam pierces his bloodshot eyes
in through the upstairs bedroom.
He needs his fix, and he wants you;
but his dealers are low on supply.
The pot is too hot, and the stew is evaporating;
it will soon be charred and stuck,
leaving other regimes to scrape off—at a cost.
The citizens are fuming, and clean air is limited
as the smog increases.
Throats are sore from tears,
and kids shooting hoops
don’t know why their neighbors
are slitting wrists
behind home security systems
and modern drapes.
The only thing left is the foundation of it all;
find speech and free will spilled out or gone.
I was born at the dog race
on a cold bleacher seat.
Umbilical to birth’s source
was when I first heard
the sound of a gun.
Shock opened my eyes
and the first thing
those virgins ever saw
crossing the line.
In the years since
the dogs have circled
too many times
to keep with my count.
I can now only deduce
that God gave ten digits
with a purpose.
never made sense
bring in heaven’s
They rabidly race
with a bleeding vigor
that I must admit
sings to my Achilles soul.
They tell of what it takes
for each spirit
to become undone;
that it’s not only me
but that we’re
with only days between.
I am still today
on the same
cold bleacher seat,
and the dogs are yet
to finish their race.
A tree bends down its branches,
pulls up its roots by the shin,
and walks toward the beautiful maple;
having been wild for her
since they were both but seeds.
The symphony of streams
along their shared view—shared for many days
and months and years—gleams up
as dirt is wrenched from the long-remaining
ground and into the lapsing water.
Fully erect when released, the days
have passed rather like seconds in the streams
that flow readily in their shared view
for what the future should hold—
as was outlined when dreamed of in the past.
And so in its infancy of lust—called on
by the charm of a lover with a shared view
of the begging and pulsing streams,
which contain the dreams they hope to share
of what should be—
a tree bends down its branches,
pulls up its roots by the shin,
and walks toward the beautiful maple;
having been wild for her
since they were both but seeds.
when i was little i thought a bastard
was a small fish
i confused it with the word sardine
it seems ridiculous now
but i remember saying it after school one day
thinking nothing of it
playing with the aftercare kids
whose parents came four hours later
than the parents
that we all thought loved their kids
more than ours loved us
i used the word for some brilliant
seven-year-old playground analogy
and still remember
the aftercare lady looking at me
with a very slight watering in her eyes
looking at me like a statistic
like a bastard who didn’t know yet
he wasn’t a small fish
i didn’t mind it at the time
unaware of what her thoughts may have been
but looking back
her feelings didn’t help me in any way
i have no interest in being a statistic
A Hitchcock film is being narrated
inside an automated sex machine
doubled as an overregulated paper press
on the top of an old Jazz Era oak desk;
what ruins a generation can make.
Moviegoers watch Greek goddesses
roam the district of lights
hoping Caesar opens his gate
wielding a king’s sword once stuck in stone.
Battles in the jungle trenches leave dead
many men who fought to have
their names heard, otherwise erased.
Hanging rosaries caress the priest’s hand
of a mighty Catholic cathedral
wrapped inside of an Egyptian pyramid.
Doctrines are organized the same today
in the great American Plains.
Aztec ruins paint a blank canvass
in a medium of internal impressions;
likewise searching were the imperialists
who came to enforce a new land.
The ruins of man are romantically studied
only long after the massacre;
the rest thought not to be at all—
even when witches and werewolves
walk the streets cloaked in epaulets
where there are no clean hands.
Exhausted rubber burns with the mourning
of America’s not-for-profit funeral.
Midwest stuck in a Chevy ’02,
pulled down into an event horizon blues.
Engines ream as pedals strike the floor,
steering away horrors on a mega bus tour.
Youngsters are doing research on the inner soul;
time spent leaping from growing black holes.
They’re learning the expense
of leaving loved ones, young and old.
It seems they’re preparing caskets
and digging further into already-present holes.
Sunlight pushes on torn-down towns
of the American Dream’s sorrowful repent.
The heartland’s foreclosed and up for rent—
can’t help but notice the interstate’s bend.
Kingdoms are clay
and their language a river,
bleeding into the hearts,
and under the fingernails,
created by the king’s clay words;
the kingdom’s clay people.
“The truth is somewhere in the middle”
says the rational person—
probably the right answer, really.
But it leaves the heart aching;
discontent with the idea
that emotion can misconstrue logic
in an argument between two opposing forces.
We’d rather a bullfight—
desperate for blood to pump our veins,
finding in it a reason to believe.
Throw ‘em in a cage,
call it a race to be king.
Remember, when you go to the booths,
vote for someone you believe!
A representation of the divine
presents itself as an allegory
inside the icon of a rising sun
as much so as it is contained
in the republic of marching ants,
creating a world of their own recognition
under sidewalk streets.
Every piece of plastic found
floating in the deep sea of themselves
symbolizes the ideal world.
We claw ourselves from caves of darkness
to see worldliness only in geometric lines,
which the artist bends and refracts
to take in their hand
nothing which creates something
within a divine source
which we view as an idea.
Culture is the grandfather of prose.
The author, an extension
of a structural language born into;
his creations inherited
from the earliest of mornings.
Wild is authorship, an outlet more present
than the psychology of the individual.
Uniqueness lies not in the artistic mind,
but in the systemic life the mind exists within.
Humanity! not the end, nor the beginning.
We are but extensions of systemic naturalism,
expressing life within human thought;
whimsical in its metaphoric description.
He busy dying
may understand life,
but understands little
Plastic bags cover the floors
of the homes and towns;
even those I adore.
A fella’s plate
means nothing to yours,
but a painter’s brush
is a right to enjoy.
The untamed West
is but an illusion
to untamed souls,
both them and yours.
A cricket croaks out a lonely tune
on a bitter summer morning
reminding me that in his vain pursuit
he is alone on an otherwise pleasing day.
In his call I think of a friend and of myself—
desires for the days ahead that I realize
to be foolish enough to ponder
fully aware lust’s vehicle always moves.
He shouts to the sky the same as the moon
during its unusual and sensual time spent
visible on a clear morning, making one
wonder if it’s where it’s supposed to be.
The outlined globe of sand calls back
with heated words of love
and I must warn the changing of the tides
not to be impatient.
The sea that calls will be sailed in time,
for we are now on a trail through the mountains
the same as she, making way with barriers
that we hope not to leave our youth to die.
Wherever it may be, in the clouds,
day or night, we share the moon
that moves and grows large like Earth’s seed
and guides us always in the end together.
Let’s rest outside today
and throw stones in our minds.
Dirt under callused feet seems to be alive.
It tells us to sit and bleed thoughts or else die.
It is for me the opposite of suicide.
We’ll sit and laugh, watch wheels go and go.
Lazy is a word too obscene to articulate
the delicacy of flavor I smell in the air.
Watch wheels pass with clouds in the sky.
Physical movement is but an aspect
of heightening movement of the soul.
Forewarn the wanderlust who knows this not.
a spherical planet
in empty space
light fragments of energy
bounce from object to object
all the same
a trampoline warps and bends
as the fat kid jumps
causing the smaller objects
to detour their paths
circling the sun
circling the pretty girl on the trampoline
everyone pretending they don’t care
when everyone there
wishes they had the guts
to talk to the girl
and talk to the sun
and ask why they care
about the girl
and about the sun
energy particles dance through the window
and shine light on the girl’s face
i lie with her
and with the sun
on a spherical planet
in empty space
Using some worn out metaphor
to look into the deep dark dead sea
brings to mind a chirping red bird
on a windowsill
whistling painful pictures of worn out
and tired faces; wrinkled old faces
that all look like the red bird and are all tired.
They bring to its eyes tears of beauty;
it hurts to speak and listen.
The red bird sings up a well-known mountain
where old cigarette butts and cheap
empty wine bottles are littered.
It’s thirsty but the bottles are dry;
those good speakers of before stayed thirsty.
They are silent now, and the red bird is young.
But it is tired; all it sees is that the trek is long.
The mountainous path is filled with pains
and vices are littered around its pursuit.
The lonely mountain air
calls out to the searching eyes
in each town and square and market,
slowly creating creases in their features;
creeping toward being old and tired;
creeping toward the sea while falling in love—
some sort of form that has meaning.
She puckered her chin,
clenched her lips,
in the normal routine
before she spoke.
putting her face on.
But she was too weak to go any further.
Her eyes opened, and for a fraction of a second,
in a lucid way.
A way that forever questions
whether there was an understanding—
I was looking back.
and I will never understand
how hard she did.
Until perhaps I find myself
on my deathbed.
But know that a mother’s love
need not be expressed
than the puckering of a chin,
and opening eyes,
for a fraction of a second.
Beauty originated the desire to interpret.
Looking forward to the past,
life arises from a narrative, like a body crucified
for the sole purpose of returning.
Every tragedy births a fetishized story
crying to be interpreted;
holes in hands prevent the grasp of life
outside of its communication.
Mathematics is the new angel
of the old western world;
its mythos cloaked in the belief of logic,
feeding humanity’s continuing search.
Elephant tattoos are painted
on Rocky Mountain walls, far below
untouched Rocky Mountain highs.
Faith-looking is the mime
with an irreversibly painted soul.
Hearty flight and weighted melancholy
are inside the climber crazed.
Better off behind bars! says the freighted train.
Reach the top or else stop
in a field of ghost-hidden tracks;
monotony ruined man
well before Adam ate an apple.
Death or else splendor!
says the slender young rebel;
risking a chance to defeat
a deadly, life-procuring devil—
a place no sane man dare be.
Alas! he says when he grasps
what for millennia he has seen.
Touch a brisk, frosty heaven
and laugh within and away
a devilish pain.
Let go of what once was, and see what is!
He shouts a wolf puppy howl
and then makes his way down.
Eventually older, he wonders
if he was the fool he’d spoken of before
and then blushes;
he acts so similar to how he was before,
and it makes him wonder,
even when thinking
of those he’s once adored,
what his time waiting had all been for.
Is all one is read backward?
Pantomime the gesture of a setting sun
while touching the tear from a lover’s eye.
Trek to the top of the hill
to find it was never a place at all,
other than to enjoy
Hebe’s eternally youthful soul.
Laissez faire in the heated summer sun.
Watch leaves turn strange colors
with the coming of fall.
Wear a sweater that covers the winter breeze
and call to a woman, perhaps a wife.
To school before dawn and work until night;
good occasion with friends
between times of fright.
Perhaps a hobby to pass the time; false interest
in promises from politicians who lie.
Think of your own death
and witness a family member’s come too soon.
Learn and realize how unlearned you are still.
Perhaps these are some of the things of life.
Backward read is one all is.