Old Bones

Old bones
This slow hum
Cutting of my own thumbs
Gripping grass
Sliding glass
Reading stolen master plans

Wrote the letters in the sand
Tide pulled her onto land
Grabbed her dainty red toes
Compose a note from these dried
old
bones.

More, Please

Smoking sticks trickle,
the holes dried the river
beds, the simple missteps
missed regrets,
simple attempts to control this
demon.
Tis the season for veiled attempts at
reason.

I believe it started with a single word.
One
steady turn left
as the crossroads fade into
the spores of discontent.

Lest we forget, that hours
are just seconds wearing
bow-ties
and blue eyes. The heart cries for a tissue,
a pillow and a pill,
a whistle keeps the flutter as a steady,
muttering daffodil.

The dead have been laughing for a day,
or maybe more.
I’ve lost count now
that you’re hammer broke through
these doors. Now the wind
whips the pages
peeling open
scabbing sores.

Dreaming Dreams

I awake asleep.
Destined to a fate, a fault in my frame.
I hang from these rafters as the circus below
whistles and whirls,
and yet I
grip.

Sleeping with an intruder,
with a faceless husk plotting.
His pokes and prods
stopping
when the signals reconnect.

And yet still
a stone.

Each ring a lost note.
The shaking is detrimental only
if I say so.

So
these piney paths I roam.

Night

The potions,
The plants,
We consume to enhance, this
toiling agenda.

Is it trickery? A delusion? Self-manipulated confusion?
Teach the consciousness to absolve inside the drops of sudden warmth. A breeze grabs the pores but the numbness cures the horror of
living in a free fall, each moment like a lie,
as we convince the small voice that to live is not to die.

The hands plummet down the slope.
Each rotation a reminder
that the conversations’ minor,
that the laughter is much louder
if your nose is full of powder,
and your ears will ring with truth.

Who are you to question these subjective noises? Who am I to whip the accused for
demanding satisfaction?
I only fear when my lips have not met the harlot night’s persuasion.

Lock the door to my own cage,
but this mess is ours not yours
as I am dragged through this parade.

The Times

Automatic weaponary is rarely impairing,
or something of the extraordinary.
I’m barely alive.
Got a suit, but cutting all my ties.
Shining my shoes with just a bottle of wine.

Concepts of nonsense,
wrapped up in the logic of my conscience,
divided by the sum of my environment.

Toxic,
your visions might get blurry from the side effects.
Relate to nothing but a chip broke in the spinach dip.

I’m losing fuel,
shooting fire from my fingertips,
burning down the houses composed of all my sins.
I chose to kill the king.
I rose until my broke toes faltered.
Drowning a baby above an alter.
Martyr, leading a kingdom of timid authors.

Crossword puzzles composed without vowels.
A maze where all the right turns turn you back around.

We’re having trouble seeing ground.
The captain started tripping on this new sound:
Lost found
Townhouse
Last round beatdown
Scared clown

My
time
now.

The Pulse #3

My fire pit stock is getting low.
What a mixed bag of emotions.

I’m very proud as should you be.
Judge me,
I tend to cry and barf.

Sleeping Breath

You show no solace, you beast, you foe. The night drags like a carcass behind this three-wheeled wagon, and I will guide it, my eyelids pinned to my cheeks and forehead. I will not yield, for you have not. I will not rest until you expose yourself from the shadows.

She breaths so softly. The air like whispers from a world banishing me. I long to be there, to touch the chaos of slumber, the madness of my own mind.
She breaths so softly when she sleeps. Her lips sit open, playing with the wind, like the horizon dancing with the pink, urging the clouds to caress its shores.
So softly, so sound, her movements are still. Her beauty is in her peace, and her breath, her sleeping breath.

I will watch you from this lonely boat, rocking, a nuisance, the smacking water louder than a landslide breaking through a cabin door, tearing the room apart, leaving nothing but the residue of a place pieced together by the fragments of what should be.

I will stay in the static,
you wandering bastard.

Bird Feeder

Two small finches landed on the perches of a still bird feeder. The gripping of their talons shook the object, beginning a slight and subtle swinging. I could see the fear in them with their proximity to the ground, a foreignness like ours to the clouds. They pecked at the seeds, stopping only to check their surrounding with jerking movements of their necks. The threat of each sound amplified, the immediacy of their feast a constant weighing of decision.

To eat, or to die.

To stay, or to fly.

I stayed as still as I could. I did not want to be the fear. As one was satisfied, his feathered stomach full, he departed swiftly, leaving his momentary companion alone. The setting sun urged his departure, it pleaded for it to follow suit, but it did not move. It did not worry, it did not contemplate, it was content, pure, free, but with the slightest of my movements, instinct propelled, the image was gone.

It’s just the feeder and I now.

My corrupted shell of sweatpants, my dirty human mind, and the song of the finch in the distance, singing with the fleeting sunshine.

The Pulse #2

I didn’t know I had a choice,
I’ll never willingly cut this curl.

If you want to watch me eat my words,
make sure it’s worth it.

It burned a hole through my chest and to the other side,
can’t wait to see what colors come out.

Please don’t all like at once.

The Pulse #1

That older man didn’t work,
now share the link and spread the word.
Tired and cranky, do not disturb.
I’ll never learn.

So the six hour round trip begins.
It shouldn’t be that hard to follow,
stay posted.

Still in pain, but I love my bed.
We were there.