still life

a rat buoys
down through the waterways,
effervescent,
carried by the
flow.

its neck not long
enough to glance upwards
at the transitory
moon,

its heart too weak
to permit its
scampering exit
into the rushes,
into the gloom;

it awaits
the fading of
the incandescent bulb
in the sky,

and with that

the light at the
end of
the channel.

the contract

count your roots -
then saw them in half.
be freed from
your earthly
limitations.

take your time to
be tall,
righteous, and worthy of
your name

and promise me
that you will never
let death’s caress
take you away
bedridden or collapsed
in a chair.

he is not
enough of a simpleton
to be
a gift for giving;

his name remains
only a
pledge of allegiance
to something we have
yet to understand.

desperation

it’s strange to think
how we culminate
as skeletons,
no more
impressive
than sticks and stones.

nonetheless, we manage
to meander undaunted
like snapping turtles
down the rapids;
and in some cases,
no one knows
where the current
ends.

meteors against the wind

You and I,
we tread
on dollar bills
toward the outlet
for this age
of possibilities.

The potential
of each notion
is all we need
to squirm
through this fortified
palisade of
sound
and plaster
its chromium finish.

It radiates revulsion,
wrapped, unassuming,
in ribbons
and an aura that says
only “get out
of my face.”

You would think
the next time could be the same,
but no;

once we permeate this
measureless boundary,
we won’t all be
here to cross
the overhang.

It’s difficult to
bet on yourself,
but tomorrow
you will need to.

goldeneye

sometimes
you forget how
to remember
and sometimes you
need to remember
which things you
want to
forget.

rainmaking

as they abolish you
from the empyreans
and bring you down
to earth,

to stand witness
to the unfathomable
barbarities of our time;

make rain rise from
puddles.

put the ink from
your poems
back into your pen.

take back the passion
you administered to your
lyrics
siphon them into the syringe
send weeping with fervency
back through your arteries

and build yourself a
new heart,
a new home.

in what other way
can we possibly
guarantee that
our souls
can harbor the weight

of our lives;
of the smoldering dynamism with
which we draw breath,
or of
our unending silence?

Two of my visualizations for Franz Kafka’s Zurau Aphorisms, #16 / 17. Two of my visualizations for Franz Kafka’s Zurau Aphorisms, #16 / 17.

Two of my visualizations for Franz Kafka’s Zurau Aphorisms, #16 / 17.

“The Poet is an architect of revolutions.”
Scherezade Siobhan© (via viperslang)

(via viperslang)

metaphorical

some things
are made for
the wicked, by
the good samaritans

some thoughts
are spoken
out of the mouths of the brilliant
and heard by only those who
misinterpret.

occasionally you’ll say
"at least i
tried”,

but now you really
need to.


casualty

I curse the faces
that float
on pollen in the wind,
they taunt me as
if my sitting here
- my lack of action - is
the most
amoral I can
possibly be.

In truth I am
only entombed in
myself out of
agitation;
the thought of
you - or of doing you
wrong,
awakens the butterflies
within my gut
and makes them squirm.

in my musings
(maybe they are nightmares)
our hearts lie
stark naked and bare
frozen within a cage,
smashed together
into an otherworldly
mess, dense as
tar.

and all I can hear
is, “from here
on out,
our lives will be
everything
but casual.”

ascent / descent

weeds
dominating abandoned stairways,
clouds looming
like awnings over the world.

the things we cannot stand
the things we refuse to endure
the things that scare us witless
the things that put the fear of God into us

the side of life that
is shaded a Stygian, pitch black
will continue encroaching on our
satisfaction
remaining imminent,
on the horizon;

but we will be there
to meet it,
arms
at hand.

lethe

at times I act upon my instincts
and become the very deplorable
wretched creature
I wish never to meet.

at times I act upon my instincts
and experience an elation
that sends me far beyond the
hereafter, 

then it lets me fall,
floundering,
into oblivion.

at times I hear my instincts
bellowing inside my head,
and I smother them
in chagrin.

these are the times during
which I come closest to
you;

half a monstrous shaft of
depravity,
the other a paragon of virtue.

you are
a wreath placed under moonlight,
surrounded by a realm
black as pitch.