Pangaea

I quietly fear growing distant
and becoming like a place on a map we run over with our fingers
saying "this is somewhere we will never be"
without a trace of lament in either of our voices.

Here, right now
we are history's greatest explorers;
with boundless love
we walk the earth
so effortlessly
as if our steps churned the oceans
and undid the breaking of pangaea.

...And the Birds Would Have Sung a Requiem for Youth

Today I saw a child chasing a bird
with a small, thick branch clenched in his fist.
The game, it seemed, was to pluck the very life
from the bird
rather than a single feather.

Suppose this boy won his game.
Imagine he swung with the greatest force
a child of his stature could,
and he struck the bird, rendering it lifeless
or better yet, leaving it hanging by a thread over the endless void,
pupils growing wider, frantically searching for safety
as synapses fail to complete the broadcast of S.O.S. to its wings and legs.

Would this child,
this boy,
have a moment of clarity,
a realization,
that he is not in possession of his own fate;
that the world is gnashing against his very existence like dirty teeth,
just waiting to satisfy a hunger for chaos at any moment
or would he see himself as a god;
capable of picking at the seams of that
which shrouds the mystery of life?

...But he missed
and continued to do so.
Never once did he come close.
In time
he will
forget this day,
this failure,
replace the memory of losing a nihilistic game of his own design,
with the joys of winning,
playing by the rules laid out by generations before him.
He will grow into part of our symbiotic stream.
He will have purpose.
He will consume.
He will be happy.
He will be happy.
He will be happy.

Not So Super Super -haiku-

Its Thursday morning
The walls are all soaking wet
I love my building

Roaches -haiku-

Little feet scurry
When the faucet is turned on
To a drier place

The 1 -haiku-

The train screeches by
Sparks illuminate this night;
Electric blue sky

Of Morlocks and Men -haiku-

We become cattle
Inside the mouths underground
Our hands do not fight

Making Excuses/Deconstructing Truths

There are brief moments when
The waking world melds with unconsciousness
Like salt becoming sanguine when poured upon torn skin
Like a memory courted by letdowns and desires
There are more moments when
The awake remain conscious
Alone in thought
Making excuses
Deconstructing truths
Just to pass the time
Until everything

Stops.

Here is Where Dreamers Lay...Dead

Oh, how life is feigned when we are complacent.
Once, this spark was the beginning of a burning city;
people trembled at its power and fury,
buildings and trestles bowed down before it,
swaying to a cacophony of screams.

Now the air is silent
and the spark is but flint striking steel
above a chamber with no fuel.
This is life;
an expended lighter.

And its killing me.

Death Drinks Folgers

Tonight we will not touch the stars;
under a blackened sky
paralyzed with fear
the morning will come like Death,
blazing over the horizon on a golden stallion,
to embrace the night into oblivion and bring us
the means to stand with arms outstretched
in the direction of all we ever wanted

Blood on White Feathers

Hope,
like the wings of a dove confounded by an affair with razor wire,
can be mended
and allow us to continue to climb to great heights.


We'll rise above this recycled air
and breathe in the smoldering ash of lateral movement.

Let Me Love You

I am sterile and cold
a virgin, open and exposed
needing to feel you
feeling me
tear you apart

Oh, let me love you
the way your disappointments would allow;
as the steel deity in your hand
freshly adorned in crimson,
lavishing you with the end

These are the days

But they have turned to nights
and our fingers,
soldiers,
steadfast at attention,
begin to claw at obscurity
in search of means to halt
perpetual motion,
to bring rest to the weary.

Snow Hog?

Last night I saw an obese man riding a motorcycle.

It was snowing.

He wins.

Copperhead Winter

The air is biting;
ravenous,
surrounding quickly as
it consumes like a viper,
savoring the bones to a shiver
without breaking the skin.
As each whispered wish for warmth is shed from our mouths
they dissipate inside the churning depths of this serpentine season.

A picture is worth 1000 words, but words are futile

Her smile is daybreak
and a gentle shake which brings consciousness;
I arise basking in the bright glow
which leaves behind restless nights

Her voice is the cadence of a grand orchestra
sounding off a joyous requiem for the sorrow,
now and forever, devoid of a beating black heart

Her touch is a hush
silencing the static of incessant thought;
palpating the soul.