The Late Foundational Period

Hallway

Ghosts in the hallway, echoes of fear,

clouds of confusion to drink,

heaven lies millions of sorrows from here,

in hurt disillusion, I sink,

an image blurred with a tint of hate,

a million long shadows of dark;

haunting deceptions infuriate,

arrows insulting their mark.

Abandoned, blind, love-scarred,

frozen through and through,

a manifested graveyard

for a love I never knew;

reluctant to be taunted,

pray, My Savior, set me free,

nevermore be haunted by

the wretched sketch of me,

nevermore allow concern

—distorted views of things;

ended all a vengeful burn,

or ended touched by wings.

Flowers

Under sky, in perfect garden,

swaying on a breeze,

is spied a prized chrysanthemum;

is spied by... I, a weed.

Emotion in her pollen smile,

glisten on her leaves,

a sheathe that speeds the breathing

of the ever-wilting me.

Spilling lilts of every hilt,

and tilting toward a pond;

to effloresce and underdress,

with near transparent fronds.

Mud

Words rendered altogether meaningless,

we breathe to each other the stale air of

our dying friendship.

As we both, wear, tear down

the hazy road to disillusionment,

I take one final look deep into her swollen eyes.

We can’t explain why it happens

to rain on a day like today,

when tears and earth mix in an audible sigh;

come rain, come mayhem,

thoughts of you drip like venom

from a rattler’s fangs,

and I sink down eye level with

the surface of the swamp.

We are two creatures,

wonderful in our own respects,

but impossible together.

Crisis

Exit house.

Exit chair.

Exit mirror.

Exit hair.

Exit friends.

Exit wife.

Exhaust charge cards.

Exhaust life.

Smoke no pipe.

Drive no car.

Harbor no malice.

Bow to no czar.

Sort no mail.

Sort no clothes.

Recognize

no eye, no nose.

Bloodshed

Spat on master, hanging on a tree,

pinned by sin allotted once to me,

riddled with belittlement and sleaze;

stabbing thrusts on upward trickle down,

in streams of clean and purity, he drowns,

sounds of jeering merriment surround;

witness senseless prophecies fulfilled,

gripped with sickness, man of sorrows killed,

evidence of hate, innate free will;

catch the rabid master gasp for air,

pass as though the bastard isn’t there,

mask intent with malice and despair,

and never dare repair the tear of wear

with blood clots.

Communion

Tasteless crackers—

symbolic?

Could be.

Of who?

Me.

Wine.

Another bottle,

maybe more.

Does the potency cure?

Sure.

Prayer—

for strength,

for love.

I’ll need it when push comes

to shove.

The Weight Of Guilt

There’s a sin my heart is now committing,

a fabric of black and gray I’m knitting,

a destructive note I’m always hitting;

it drags me down ‘til death is fitting.

I’m trapped inside the walls I built,

my pinball game is stuck on tilt,

I’m trying to walk on just one stilt;

I’m crushed beneath the weight of guilt.

I Know

I sense you,

and freeze,

because I know.

I feel you,

and tremble,

because I know.

I hear you,

and cover my ears,

because I know.

You see me,

and run,

because I know.

I become you,

and cry like you,

because I know.

Shreds

Tear me to pieces,

rip me to shreds,

pounce like a rabid wolf,

leave me for dead.

Break these disjointed limbs

and disappointed heart;

it won’t break my spirit.

Tear me apart.

Get, Then, Out From My Head

Alas, I cannot but think of thee,

and all we may profess to be.

Get, then, out from my head.

I paint or sculpt thy lovely face

on pillar, granite, still, or vase.

Get, then, out from my head.

Ye, in mine slumber, flavor dreams,

eternal on the mind it seems.

Get then, yet, into my heart.

Act

like a storm trooper into the world

unshackled and zombie-like

armored, honored

into the world

know

intentional, with great faith and unalone

inhabited by his great Spirit

powerful, nonchalant

and unalone

beholder of wonders miraculous

showered blessings heap

reaped harvest

of miraculous

revival of awakened spirit

by action committed newbies

inspires a fresh sense of awe

and a short call to act

(Until “Cut” is yelled, years into production.)

Potter’s Plot

Fresh from kiln’s scalded mouth,

a simple round base spat up

to lend its grip to life’s decor.

Impartial and beautiful, it sat up,

filled with soil rich with patches of Golgotha.

The Disgrace Of Miss Ruth

Nothing now but silence

can defiant yet afford,

saddest minor chords diminish

vast duration scored;

aftermath of afterthought

may gladly coincide

with the suicidal temptings

of forlorn, rejected bride,

mulled and juxtaposed, upheaval,

disappointment in her breast,

in a bedroom with no bridegroom,

torn and tattered wedding dress.

Yea, the virgin’s pent excitement spent,

and etched across her wrist;

what a cruel and harsh awakening,

so easily dismissed!

On the mantle, framed with layered dust,

a thousand years have settled

on the photograph’s torn edges

and the bouquet’s wilted petals.

And the virgin’s wasted image,

on its inward-eaten youth,

impresses children’s whispered rumors

of the fall of Old Miss Ruth;

yea, this haggard and unfortunate,

forgotten, sickly witch is what

became of poor Miss Ruth DeLeuth,

so easily dismissed!

Words Without Beauty, World Without Hope

Where’s your God at, Bible-Boy,

in this corruption?

Where’s your Savior at the swollen

cheek of this grieving mother?

In the reality I call home,

children get beat to death

and live-in girlfriends won’t rat

on their rapist men-friends;

remind me again how rosy life is?

How cozy life is? (Sometimes I forget.)

Wake one afternoon to the vomit

and poverty of a reeking shit-hole, then

proclaim your All-fucking-mighty’s deeds!

Pray to your wishful thinking for

some blessed fucking miracle.

And pray me into a million dollar

inheritance—you pricks are despicable!

Stand on lit street corners and babble

some useless foreign tongue,

with your trimmed, clean head

covered with the ashes of your “brother”.

Witness loud in proud words about

the same God as that reverend down the

street, then secretly attack each other.

And embellish phony testimonies

and S.O.B. stories,

exaggerate the partial truths you twist;

say you were once scum like us,

‘til you made high society.

But don’t stay past dark,

or a cracker like you’ll

get a real quick trip to Hell;

maybe we skip on over to your block,

see how long it takes to break past your locks,

cuddle up to your wife and kid;

then you know a whole new truth

'bout that wickedness you preach,

that side of sin you ain’t never fucking seen!

Surprise

It’s been a long time;

too long for me.

Heaven knows I’m the last

one you expected to see.

But I just had to see you,

to know you’re okay.

And now you probably

want me to go away.

It was bad enough

when I hurt you before,

so what am I doing

back at your door?

I suppose I should leave;

I should never have come.

I guess I was just

being foolish and dumb.

It was a bad idea;

it won’t happen again

—why should you

care how I’ve been?

Sorry to bother you;

forget I was here.

Don’t give it another thought.

Forget me, my dear....

[Door shuts tightly.]

Anything

I would dance for you if you taught me to.

I would do anything.

I would lie with you if you asked me to.

Anything.

Happy Faced

You look so grim, it breaks my heart;

though not without reason, you play such a part.

But life is too fresh when its wonders unfold,

to be girded, guilt-laden, with passions untold.

When perception refuses the volume of half,

just tip over the tipsy glass, brace for a laugh;

and in social excursions, we’ll grin, you and I,

at the happy faced gestures of clowns in the sky.

(And get that horrible expression off your face!)

Regret

Now as I recollect,

and solemnly reflect on what has passed,

I expect I’ll be saddened to remember correctly

how few times we spoke directly;

even as early as when first we met,

I can’t forget the regrets I had

for never taking time to sit, to talk,

never suggesting we go for a walk;

even when the rarest of moments were shared,

I dare say I never betrayed what I felt.

So now that our lives will no longer align,

you’ve gone on your way, and I’ve gone on mine,

I wonder with sadness what might have been;

now that I’ll never see you again.

Time has insisted that now you shall be

only the essence of faint memories.

But I’ll flirt with your ghost, the hostess

of my fantastic sorrow, and may borrow

fragments from a different source,

a course with differing tomorrows.

But reality will set in at a crucial moment,

and I’ll be back in my dark room,

enveloped in the unhealthy gloom,

where all I can do is pray, hope to

God you’re okay, even though I’m not,

because I’ve got too many mistakes

to come to terms with; it burns to know

I threw away my only chance,

threw it all in the face of romance.

I wonder if I’ll ever be truly over you.

Such Is Better Never Mentioned

I wrote a word—absurd—on love,

or what I thought affection was;

with eloquence ideas fell

upon the feat of life itself.

At once I shunned my own intention;

such is better never mentioned.

Often heard is still her voice,

in grieving over fateful choice;

frequently, on bended knee,

I coin concern in surge of pleas.

And these diseases drew attention;

such is better never mentioned.

Yea, I have in past been led

to not reflect on what was said,

when you in all your disarray

could not have grasped it anyway.

In this I measure some prevention;

such is better never mentioned.

On A Night Like This

On a night like this, we were together,

while we both were very young,

the words I had to say froze

to the tip of my forked tongue;

with one last kiss and last embrace,

that parting moment stung,

and I shed a final tear for all

the songs we left unsung.

On a night like this, my heart was heavy,

and my nature chained me down,

it dropped me at the dregs of pitfalls,

left me there to drown;

I took a final look at you

(that midnight evening gown!),

turned my back and turned my head,

and left that gloomy town.

On a night like this, perhaps, we’ll

reunite when years no more remain,

you’ll have loved and lost a thousand times,

and I’ll have done the same;

I’ll kiss anew the youth in you,

and utter fresh your name,

then oldest, sweetest friends we are,

we’ll nod and drift away.

Gold Street Mansion #7

When years turn to tears

and give way to remorse,

and the birthed have seen death,

and all life’s run its course,

when the servants and kings

befriend worms underground,

and their catacombs cave

and their walls tumble down,

when our skin and our muscle,

too heavy for bone,

tear away from their tissue

and drop like a stone,

when our hearts halt their

beating, and arteries still,

and no lawyer or heir

may inherit our wills,

when the centuries cease,

and the decades desist,

and those opposite Adam

at length end the list,

and the cynics and scoffers

join nursery marms’ hands,

when eternity’s hourglass

empties of sands;

then at last will the sculpting

of heaven complete,

and in grace will we throw

ourselves down at his feet,

and with merriment, laughter,

contentment and peace,

and a wellspring’s abundance

of banquets and feasts,

will creation then fall

to God’s chosen elect,

and rewards, yea, and

treasure beyond our suspect,

will yet fall in allotment

to royalty, slaves,

and the vermin of earthen

and worldly gain,

and the street corner bum

who has died in his sleep,

and the toilsome sower,

and planter who reaps;

and the streets sheathed in

golden, the glimmering lane,

where the ends of our labors

are finally explained,

is the sight, where our souls

will then settle in time,

of my heavenly mansion,

and yours next to mine.

Verse From The Second Confraternity:

The Early Sociopathic Era

tO maKE yOu LaUGh! (tHatís LaFf)

Oh, FOr heAveníS sAKe...

heRe Iíve bEEn cArRYinG on,

wHilE youíVE BEeN siTtiNg theRe,

thAt BoRed LOok on yEr FaCe.

And I hAvENít noTiceD

--wEll, uNTiL NoW--

IíM aS UttErLy eNteRtAiNing as a coW....

(Hmmm... now that I think about it, cows are actually very entertaining.

Especially so would be a cow named Bob. Wearing pants. Ha ha ha haa!)

[Now back to our irregularly scheduled poem.]

Iíll tAtToo a mUscLe on mY CaLf

fOr tHe soLE PuRpoSE of mAkinG you LaUGh;

iíLL buY tOyS iíll NeVer nEED,

liTtlE GolDeN BooKs iíLL neVEr reAd;

wHen ItíS QuITe inNaPPropRiAte,

Iíll StRike a PoSe,

oR StiCk a PiCkLe UP mY nOsE; *

iíll QuIP the FliP thAt niPs My hEAd

(aNd WoNdEr whAt thE HEcK I sAiD!);

Iíll PAint tHe BluE BoY ShADes Of bRoWn,

aND dReSs mYsELf a CIrcUs cLoWn;

Iíll PaSs and AsK yOu hoW YoUíVe beEn,

thEn dROp fRom A cEiLinG tiLE,

asK yOu AGaIn;

iíll sKeTCh cArTOonS thAT MaKE no sEnSe;

yoUíLL wonDEr wHY i aCt So dEnSe;

iíll CaRry hIGh mY loOnEy StaFf,

JuST AnY oLd tHinG To mAkE YoU lAuGh.

* not that it is ever really appropriate to stick a pickle up one’s nose.

Blameless

How can you tell me I am

blameless in his sight,

when even now I spit on a Bible

in front of his face?

I have mulled over the words

a thousand times in my mind,

but examine my actions;

you will find not a trace.

What Little Left Time

Come rain or come morrow,

come quickly what may,

come apocalypse,

come freedom,

come you,

I pray.

Callously More

I give you without reservation my bold heart;

you drop it back frail and wasted.

I open the palm of my soul to clasp

the thin fingers of your own;

my arms and digits are knocked away by

the swinging fancy of your frantic limbs.

I unfurl the details of

wrenching accounts for your whims,

and am rewarded with a sucker punch to the gut.

Still,

you petition for more than what is already yours,

as I wonder what further damage I might incur.

Speak It

What sort of answer do you expect,

when you vaguely turn my

imagination to such violence?

What brand of generic cure-all

do you hope will soothe the ills

of your churning stomach?

You hint at unthinkable,

unmentionable,

unforgivable things,

and spare me details far less grim

than my own inferred intimations.

Speak of such—you coward! You cur!

Speak, and befriend the

repercussions of intention.

Low

Here comes the part when I cry,

on blistered knees and face,

when forgiveness is over-ridden by depravity,

and morality is replaced,

dethroned by calamity,

vanity in place;

I weave threads of newly dyed fibers

into the sheet of sins erased.

And plead for death to end the wheel’s spinning,

that the tapestry may hang.

I Know No Happy Songs

I know no happy songs;

if I heard one, I could not sing along.

What, then, would I sing if not through tears,

with troubles stilled and a skyline clear?

I would not know a tune to hum,

no songbook I could gather from.

Then, for the sake of music, may

I be tormented all my days!

For happiness without a song

is worse by far than all gone wrong,

for pain at least may yet be soothed,

while happiness remains unmoved.

A Fine Day To Die

Ah, what a way to go,

already in Seventh Heaven;

such a pretty day,

a fine day to die!

Amanda in the car,

riding off;

how perfect!

What a good day to die!

Andrea walks over

countless graves,

through grass, very cheerful.

What a nice day to die!

Tara looks around,

through wind tunnels;

how nice—the breeze!

What a right day to die!

Kelly stands at the corner,

under a blue sky,

seen through green leaves.

What a grand day to die!

Laura with her friends,

all with pretty eyes,

and pretty smiles.

What a crisp day to die!

Angie carries herself as if

she owns a small town,

quite contented.

What a ripe day to die!

Amy waves

and giggles;

such sweetness!

What a prime way to die!

And Vanessa pulls back her

hair, laughs gorgeously,

while clouds drift into anonymity.

Such a fine way to die!

Shannon wears red,

and a yellow ribbon;

explosion of color.

Such a good way to die!

Kristy bends and kneels

purely, innocently,

terrifically.

Such a nice way to die!

Mary silently concedes

that she is happy,

as we all have reason to be.

Such a right way to die!

Georgianna lowers,

sits considerately near;

how kind!

Such a grand way to die!

Tracy prances, sure-footed

and awkward as a child;

angels laugh.

Such a crisp way to die!

Brandi tucks her shirt

to the top of her jeans,

folds the ends of the legs.

Such a ripe way to die!

What a wonderful life, full of

wonder, bliss and merriment

—without regrets;

such a prime way to die!

Back Again

I’m back again,

sitting behind this thick curtain;

did you see how far I got?

That was my best one yet,

but I’ve returned

to the house of regrets.

So sorry to keep you waiting,

but I’m back again, and ready to start over.

Sometimes I frighten myself,

sometimes I’m not a bit surprised—

I’d nearly forgotten this place,

when I caught sight again

of its ugly face.

Many pardons for the delay,

but I’m back again, and ready to start over.

I’d the golden opportunity to change,

I’d everything in the world to gain,

but so high were hopes overshot;

I was to be released,

until the resurgence of the beast.

A thousand apologies for my rudeness,

but I’m back again, ready to start over.

Crip

Gouge you these bluish-ruddy sockets,

with all bluntness and all malice.

Free cruelly from the pivots of wrist

these housings for pudgy fingers.

Separate with serrated edges

this slit tongue from its eroding base.

Unattach these vile, unreliable ears;

sever or wholly split the sensory curse.

String out these organs, muscles and tendons

across a live wire of high voltage,

and hang the remaining frame, a monument.

A Charismatic Moment (It Happens)

IN THE NAME OF CHRIST JESUS,

WHO DIED AND ROSE,

IN THE NAME OF GOD’S

ONE AND ONLY SON,

AT WHOSE AUTHORITY YOU CONVULSE,

IN THE NAME OF BOTH LORD AND SAVIOR,

BY THE BLOOD IN WHICH I BATHE;

I COMMAND YOU TO LEAVE ME!

A Place

Immoral world of mirror and diamond idols,

personage indulged of filth and rot;

I stow, like a novel-bound boy, away,

climb from the shore to some height

on Olympus.

Glaring from the Cyclops eye

on the face of each reprehensible

link in the barricade,

the ravenous lynx narrows in, intent

to sink its teeth into the fresh, cold

neck of naiveté.

From a lofty overlook of cloud,

the gods converse,

discuss with a detached interest

the plight of mortals,

zero in for example on impending dangers,

and mildly brush away the new dust of terrors.

Elsewhere, a tender, frightened sort

kneels in submission

before the alter and clergy of a monastery,

and with profound compassion,

is smitten into embers and salt.

Yea, Solomon! How true

the disinfecting sting of your words!

The abolition of earthly justice

mocks the simple penitent;

no place our eyes may yet drop

shall offer refuge.

Get Away!

Get away, you and your unwanted patronage!

Upon you now is the sudden twist

of the utensil I’d secretly lodged

into the first five layers of your heart.

In precision timing, you become

the recipient of a century’s worth of

deeply neurotic tendencies.

Blame falls in rage across the gape

of the vulnerability you’ve displayed,

as objects hurl and fly and whirl centimeters

past the unprotected mass of your head.

Half the voices say one thing, and half another,

as I struggle to maintain a safe distance from

the tempting display of vanities you’ve become.

Run or duck or hide, or take random shots

at the moving target of my ego;

you are the focal point of the concentration

of all anxiety and persecution and grandeur,

and you may not be so fortunate as to see twenty.

The Sun Is Relentless

The sun is relentless.

Waves of heat rise above the sand.

An oasis mocks my

weakening grasp of reality;

what a cruel joke to play

on so torturous a day.

Vultures dive through seas of blue;

in distress, I call to you,

“Come, provide me shade.”

Through worlds of time my life slips;

come winter, altogether hidden,

I shall be surprised if you find a trace.

But for now, the sun is relentless

and I must endure.

A Crime Without Passion Is No Crime At All

In the time it takes to light a cigarette,

I rage, blow a gasket—a fuse—

irreversibly age, forget the initial spark,

flutter like a mad, wounded meadowlark.

Sailor vocabulary, Navy mentality,

whip and spin and cut

like a circular saw in a lumber mill;

the hands that create are the same that kill.

Vitals throb and convulse,

inflame and agitate an irregular pulse

with hate and unpleasant wishes;

you, caught in a crossfire of beams, novels,

and collectors edition dishes.

Violent thrashes trash and scatter

the shattering glass and mirrors,

and the announcer refers back to the screen

for the not-so-silent replay of the last batter.

In These Very Pages

In these very pages,

the details of my conception

were documented and

stored away in some great,

hard-to-obtain scrapbook.

In these very pages,

the memories of those first

days of rivalry and insecurities

and affirmations were scratched.

And what later became

commonly referred to as

“the good old days” saw light for

a first, and essentially a last time.

In these pages photos were pressed

of holidays and vacations,

birthdays and high school dances;

then eventually weddings,

then the cycle all over again.

These were the pages that caught the tears

the night we found that Jonathan had died.

In these very pages,

the span of all life was laid out,

with vivid descriptions of

how the author provided

for the chapters to end

with any sense of finality.

But perhaps they became

so cluttered over time,

so worn with study

and yellow with age,

that we forgot the content

of the original text

beneath our own notes.

Idol

Sip the minds of your followers,

intertwine identities;

yes, now you are a part of us all,

the happiest of tragedies.

Draw us closer to your web,

interweave our lives,

sing a touching sequence

of a fairy’s lullabies.

Penetrate the layers

built against attacks;

celebrate your entrances,

which once were merely cracks.

Hide your understanding

under fellowship with fools;

search for double-meanings,

then utilize as tools.

Accommodate your victims,

follow through tradition;

wrinkle latex carcasses

to spread a new religion.

Sink a little farther down,

deep into the sea;

drown yourself in the process

of illuminating me.

Winter Seasoning

Winter adds such delightful seasoning;

another overcast this evening.

While temperatures drop another degree,

cottontails dance from tree to tree.

White sheets contrast the cold, nil sheaths

that envelope the Christmas wreaths.

Yet few ever notice this masterpiece,

and fewer love it as much as I.

Am I So Strange?

No one around here laughs anymore;

how terribly depressing!

I see three faces where I should see but one;

who do we think we’re impressing?

Am I so strange?

Doesn’t anyone else want a perfect world?

Isn’t anyone else so strongly convicted?

Doesn’t anyone else strive for the ideal?

If so, we should get together some time

and have tea.

3 AM

The clock—

it strikes 3 A.M..

I’m in that crazy state again.

I toss and turn to pull you close,

swallow hard a lethal dose.

I’m half awake and half dead;

I only half heard what you said.

How are we close if you’re so far away?

(Things are so clear during the day.)

Oh God,

I’m so confused!

These pillows—they aren’t you.

You seem so near,

you get so far;

I’m locked behind

these unseen bars.

Where are you?

Lost

Lost is a child with eternal ideas,

lost are the dreams that come true,

sometimes I ask around,

hoping to find him,

the odd little boy of my youth.

Before age destroyed faith,

imagination ran wild, and I hoped

and I wished and I gleamed,

but time locked its fingers

and choked what was hope,

now my heart is no longer that free.

Year after year, I gave up more and more,

fearing the child would soon die,

and I noticed the corpses—rotting decay—

of my friends who had changed with the tide.

I wrestled inside with the feelings I hid,

of hatred and love and dismay;

the emotions conflicted

and clashed so intensely,

a stoic emerged from the fray.

And now I am tired,

and the child is quite sick,

as am I at my weary old age;

I lean ill in my rocker

and stare at the bricks,

a senile wretch—

ragged, deranged.

From whence I came,

I long to return;

I count the final days.

Awaiting me, a grave for two—

my final resting place!

The Someone

Girl, it hurt to find out you’ve got someone,

someone to look into your hypnotic eyes,

someone to tell you all those lies,

someone for you to love.

Oh girl, why him? Why not me?

Why can’t I be the someone

to touch your model’s face?

The someone you embrace?

Because I love you, girl—I really do.

And I’d love for you to love me too.

Nowhere To Turn

Thoughts circle like vultures

in blades cast across my ceiling.

Visions and prophecies drip from

walls

trim.

Sheets of air send my self-image reeling.

Splatters on the inside of my habitat turn grim.

Lyrics in the background

cause excuses to rise and fall—

a jolly roller coaster ride.

My sharpened sword stretches a mile tall,

as ominous as my pride.

Creon climbs through barriers to sentence me;

from another dimension he ascends.

Idiots swarm in from alternate

worlds to condemn me;

beginning where my world ends,

and I’ve nowhere to turn.

So Much Sister

Come now, sister, stay sweet—

withhold your basket full of treats.

You, my dear, dear as can be,

must hide yourself from beasts like me.

You mean so very much to me—

too very, very much; I can’t protect

your purity while longing for its touch.

Sweet entreaty, can’t you see,

you’re like a sister to me?

I love you, virgin, sweet to be,

and too esteem your worth in heat.

So go now, honey—sugared saint

(epitome of all I ain’t), and mother

some other brother’s child,

with your wild, pungent smile.

A Season On The City Streets

These city nights kill me,

city days chill me.

It’s that time of year again,

when frost forms on window panes.

I need some extra warmth to

get through the season,

something left in the

community clothes bin;

just some old rag,

just some garbage bag.

With skin dry and chapped,

and coat old and torn, scarved

to keep my heartbeat wrapped—

most I’ve had since I was born.

These city nights wound me,

city days swoon me.

It’s the time I fear again,

when frost bites cracked, uncovered fingers.

God, if you’re there, my life is in your hands;

won’t you give me some reason to live?

Just one good reason,

just one warm season.

Uncaring winds freeze my hard soul,

chill me to black core; the blood inside

crushed veins runs cold—

I need a little more.

The Path Taken

Walking down desolate road,

edging on to infinity,

step up to a crossroads;

which direction will it be?

Spinning through the cosmos,

hanging on for dear life,

here choices are made quick;

with haste and sacrifice.

Echoes gently lap

against the inner shell of brain;

anonymous voices whisper out

words so profane,

“Which way to the resort?”

Phased

I’ve been around for you,

been there to cheer you up,

tried to keep you happy,

make you laugh;

but I don’t know anymore.

My kindred spirit’s gone.

Maybe it is just a phase,

but I’d rather be alone.

Please understand,

it isn’t anything you’ve done;

I just need time to think.

(Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.)

A Shoulder To Cry On

What depressing irony;

all the people I’ve been there for,

and no one is here now for me.

I need a shoulder to cry on,

a friend to rely on,

someone to see me

through this low.

I Can

I’m only human...

which makes for

fragile bones;

bones that break,

feet that ache,

head that throbs,

hands that shake.

I can be confused

(which is why I fell for you);

I have feelings and a heart.

I can love you.

I can understand.

I can be sensitive, or hurt.

I can be rash and savage,

decent and attentive,

responsible or unreasonable;

all in the time it takes

to lose a friendship entirely,

and fall off the face of earth.

Scratch

Keep your smelly ol’ skin

out of the draft, cretin;

no one gives a damn about

your heroic delusions.

We’re all too preoccupied with

the grand farce of life,

to pay heed to your

petty conquests.

It must have been awful,

but we don’t care.

It must have been terrible,

but we weren’t there.

I’ll bet you’re unhappy—

you must have regrets;

those kinds of things

no one ever forgets.

Do you cry while

you while away?

I’ll bet you do.

I’ll bet if I were you,

I’d be tormented too.

But it doesn’t concern me,

I really don’t mind;

you show me no courtesy,

treat me unkind.

So leave us alone,

you dirty ol’ bastard;

we don’t have time for

your hallucinations.

(Oh, and the lawyer will be over tomorrow

to help you write up your will, Dad.)

Don’t Ask

I only want the best for you,

for you to have what you deserve;

so push me off this window ledge.

Mowing Down Bunnies

They’re becoming a problem;

what shall we do?

Those bunnies are deadly

(but so darn cute!).

Aren’t you concerned?

They’re into your petunias!

What shall we do?

They’re everywhere!

What shall we do?

(The brave man says,)

“You get inside, son;

I’ll take care of this!”

Yeah, man,

mow ‘em down!

[Mower.]

Leaving Virginia

Under a warm Virginia sky,

beneath the rusty Red Rose sign,

behind the pumps of gasoline,

on dusty roads that few have seen,

beside the woods where spirits rest,

in rotten rooms that rats infest,

above the flight with the broken stair;

some say the child still is there.

I saw the stone with my own two eyes;

engraved, “Here Our Child Lies.”

I shuddered when I saw the tomb

of child, dead in mother’s womb.

An abandoned shack in a field of weeds,

a broken dam in a sea of reeds,

a bird that drifts through heavy skies,

a willow waving slight good byes,

a door and screen of rusty frame,

a forest full of wild game,

a small and twisting hidden stream,

a tattered flag that winds redeem,

a fallow field of sweat and tears,

a bridge that holds a child’s fears,

a tree that ends a broken fence,

a tangled bush bristling past tense,

a moving van that sighs a bit;

reluctantly, he walks to it...

never to return.

The Words

Words cannot define the feeling—

love, or trust, appeal, or reeling.

Friends does not serve justice fair;

mad and crazy likewise err.

Truth is not head over heels,

nor any thought such speech reveals.

Beautiful would not suffice,

nor priceless, breath-taking or nice.

Mere words, indeed, with limits set,

may not encompass you, my pet;

mere words, in fact, despite your gleaning,

never touch a smile’s meaning.

So Refined

Like the newest advancement

in fine robotic engineering,

polished sheer and meticulously smooth,

emerges the femininity of crafted

and exacting labor, designed with me in mind.

Surges of power throughout scientific perfection

aim their concentrated efforts

at the rough gel that is me.

I am plasticine mass, awaiting the pulverization

of tiny arms and a thousand pistons.

She is the astonishing beauty of machinery

made for no other reason than the melting down and

molding of my toxic mixture of ingredients

only scientists can pronounce.

She opens her metal jaws and lunges at my gut;

I spill onto the conveyer belt

and stain her unspoiled gears.

Then I am packaged and sold,

as another clump bleeds through her seals.

You Can’t Change It

The future is laid out,

in unexpected twists

from the dagger of fate;

and I have given up hope

—yes, threaded the

needle of a noose

with my neck of rope.

Is it humorous to you

up there, God of hoax?

Do you think these are

astonishingly funny jokes?

Ah then, you may

indeed be right

to burden with

such tragic plight!

Considering It

Frightened on the other end

sits cowering this loss at your words,

unable to answer but that I’m scared;

terrified at how easy it would be

to dig trenches in the surface of forearms,

frightened at how little coaxing it would take.

You sit in shattered glass and pools of blood

on the far side of town,

past families having dinner,

and tennis players,

and college-aged girls walking great big dogs,

and security guards reading comic books,

taking advantage of broken vending machines,

poets sitting romantically under trees,

or lying stoned and near dead in their garages.

You mention such and I have no answers,

no possible hope to offer

to convincingly resolve anything

of the muddle of depravity and depression,

or bat away any of the fears so quick to surface.

Instead I think of how romantic it would be

to end it all in one slash with the same razor

you now hold in your hand.

Gruesome, yes, but romantic.

Dawn

Dawn.

The dawn of a new day;

in dew cover and sprinkler spray.

I awake in a thorn bush,

to mourning’s needle pricks,

and stricken by sticks and

brush from the thicket.

Age-old sun reaches earth;

I turn dark and cancerous under its curse.

Eve.

Evening lifts covers over her nipples;

slips between sheets against slight ripples.

I sink deep beneath cotton

clouds of down fluff,

drink sweet dreams off the

rim of her nightshirt cuff.

Burnt out stars fall across her face,

I trace them down the lace of her pillowcase.

Lucifer, My Love

My dear, dear Lucifer, you clever devil!

It is perfectly terrible how you work!

You have examined me;

you know me, old friend,

better perhaps than I know myself.

How wonderfully deceitful you are,

sinister spirit of evil,

wicked angel of death!

My love, could I ever leave such treachery?

Is not your torment my delight?

Is it not you who gives root

to my morbid fantasies?

Gladly I drink from your cup of destruction;

in happy delirium I sip of your life’s blood.

I please myself with today’s stew of immorality,

giving no thought to consequence.

Oh God

Oh God, will you yet deliver me?

God, will you call me forth

from the furnace?

Oh, tell me it isn’t too late,

tell me this isn’t my fate,

tell me there is

something I can do

to justify my actions,

to atone my sins.

Oh God, look at

this quarry of tears,

listen to this

series of screams;

where is the forgive-

ness you promised?

Oh God, no!

No, God! Oh,

this can’t be the end!

Tell me this isn’t the end!

Someone To Grow Old With

No one knows why they want what they want,

no one knows why they’re never happy with what they’ve got.

Everyone simply compromises,

never fully realizing none of it matters;

in eighty years we’ll all be dead,

burned by all the fires we fed.

I want to age.

I want to lean back in my rocker,

teeth in a cup to the side.

I want to sip the lemonade my dear will make,

play cards, look at the shapes in the skies, then

look at the memories in my best friend’s eyes.

She can make me smoke my pipe outside.

We’ll have nothing to do but pass the time.

Then peacefully, we’ll die,

I and my someone

to grow old with.

Daddy

Daddy’s a good man,

tries hard, does the best he can,

would sell his blood to get me through school;

and I... I am intentionally cruel.

I spit in his face,

stick him through the heart,

then systematically tear his ego apart.

He would give me the world at his own expense,

and I would charge him rent for living here.

Life’s Altering Course

A continental drift pushes us further and further;

while skin