fascist habit

and the famous literati found themselves in a world of bound books
and the delicate architectures were no longer appreciated with dirty looks
and the solace of simplicity became measured by the meters of beauty

and you and me,
and me and you
and those are few words
to describe the complexity
of two coupled by the vows of love

and bad poetry all around
and answers lost but never found
and questions asked
and certain elocutions through
the miasma of nebulas could not
discover the ancient harmonies
that had gone, that were lost
due to pettiness and greed.

goodbye internet writing,
as the old saying goes
if you do something well
get paid for it,
if you go through hell
never tell, never tell.

ink travels on train track
while paper prefers a plane
and pens sometimes drink
in the words they have writ
while books begin to look
like print and hallowed
scripture made a song of
the cataleptic fit.

fresco lives in time wild
with the coloration of form
and painting travels like
an old man starving for a bone,
and painting travels like a
fluid river looking for a home
in the idle sea that burgeons
around the delicate mystery
of evolution's archaic prophecy
that gave what swam a little
land, that gave what flew
command of the draped blue
arena, that old sky.

pottery stilts our architecture
with vain containment of art's
gardened meadow stretched vaster
than a weathered cloud cover
upon the plane of rainy refrains,
upon the pain of many disdains,
upon the age of sculpted ideals
formulated in the veins of marble,
upon the refrain of art.

the fulminous pentameter of pale pink artistry

Who's clothes are we wearing now?
The blackened coats of filthy foot soldiers
obeying the orders of mad generals drunk on whiskey,
or the petticoats of ladies who blessed us with
clownish love, the ornate decorations of vined
embroidery sufficing to make us laugh as we
made fools of ourselves in the Veterans Day
parade? Who's circle of a belt are we wearing,
is it the one that we tanned ourselves after
stripping the leather off of the cattle,
the one that we sewed with our calloused fingers
in the dark heat of some Asian sweatshop?

I might ask the same about your mask, the one
that your father gave you on your fifteenth birthday,
all rosy and cruel and delicate with features of
some idle bank robber's sentimentalities, fitting
like a glove across the face, that old slap that
weakens our bonds to what is familiar.
Where we wear masks, it is obvious, where we go
without them is not.

Shawls are terrifying, the ghost-wraith fabric
wound around the wind in fumes of threads,
the beggar's breath that with undulating tassels
speaks of charity, companionship, silence, and
what more, curses. But they demonstrate the
way in which supple form maybe be accentuated
by a mask of silk, of coarse cashmere curving
around humane architechtures like wisps of willow
about a branch.

Who's clothes do you have on?
Who's mask have you stolen?
Who's ancient angelic hopes have you rotted with
the symphony of decay, with the secret sublimity
of control, with the dangerous spirits of intoxication
and with the vespers of power's praise?

What dance do you prepare yourself for?
The old plague rehearsal, that child's game
where they all fall down in a ring and giggle
but for the posies? Or is it the office party
where you imbibe and demonstrate your talents
at hanging lampshades across their heads to
mask the light of the eyes, the parties where
insanity goes unobserved but for the inevitable
hangover that crumples the weapons of the spirit
into nothing but ash smoke? What fulminous
pentameter calls across your musics, what
passion-play has made you sick with longing,
what innuendo's reminiscence has broken your step
in dark desire's theatrics, where pirouhettes
aren't practiced and the orchaestration is tied
by strings and thistles to the machineries of
the gulag?

Do not ask me any more questions about myself,
you who have posed so much in the artifices
of joy like a gargoyle lying in wait for sunset
to extract its stone from your veined flesh.
Do not command me to obeyances of urn's formulation,
to the machineries of meaningless transience
where routine becomes a blessing, and do not
formulate me into a receptacle for your insecurities,
for I have had the same, and fought my way out
instead of waiting for some flitting whim to
curtail the miseries of modernity, instead of
hallowing the artificial angels languishing
in brain death on godless pews strewn with the
langour of authority's lack of vision.

Where the people make nothing themselves,
nothing shall be made; the simple and stupid
equation that belies the truth, that animosity
towards the creative is like a death-sentence
of self-destruction, that antagonizing the birth
of pale pink artistry only antagonzies the future
of security and peace, that developing the
darkened manipulations of gears within the pulsating
flower of mind foreshadows sinking in the great lake
instead of being floated like a blossomed lily
upon the water gardens of an Impressionist master.

You do not believe me
because you do not believe anything.

love and hunger

So I walk upon these diamond sidewalks
with a heart in my back pocket, peddling
playing cards with faces, asking only
for a second time to hold your hand
beneath the cold avacado sun as the
fire engines tear holes in the aura
of silence, as the police are blocking
off the roads in displays of arbitrary
whatevers, as the whatevers are becoming
whoevers in the miasma of suburban
esoterica known as the disorganized mass
of community.

The traffic stares, the traffic cares
about vagries masquerading as substantialities,
about substantial gasolines refined by
the delicate operations of greed, all that
glass and aluminum rushing down rivers,
all that smoke and dross and ancient motion
manipulated into acceleration (this is the
physicist talking) and all the hurried
completion beneath a dark moon as the
night unfolds its shadows across the veldt,
as the veldt unfolds its fiction of emptiness
across the great expanse of asterisms.

Ruined by melody, defeated by perfume,
a short man in swimming trucks once told me
that I wasn't going to have a room,
a suburbanite informed me that the ghost-faced
killer drove a motorcycle and wore a halloween
mask, but the ghost faced killer told me
that some of us had to last, some of us who
drank harmonies in the cadence of sloshing
vessels could shoot lasers at Saturn's moons,
a woman i met talked with too many hands
told me that my life essentially was ruined,
but I did not believe any of these things
all too soon.

Call me what you will, we are all just
graveyard holes to be filled, call me what
you will, we are all just dancers with
the starlit fumes, we are all just disasters
masquerading as masters, we are all just
candles glowing in this ancient room.

open plea

Delicate preoccupations with the stuff of light
Shading the brow in a fury of darkness, these simple
Metaphors that the subconscious won’t get rid of
Because I see it in all of you, the stupid duality
Of Christian banality subverted into guilt complexes
For living life, I see the harmonies of joy patient there
Within you, waiting for a chance, well you have
To know when to join in, you have to sing through
The cliché thick and thin, and you’ve got to manage
As best as you can when the rain is gathering in the East
And cellphones are blathering ancient threats in new
Technological voices, and the frighteners scour the
Suburban streets with childhood masks soft and sweet
Like an oleander Halloween…

You all have something, you all have yourselves,
Build your temples upon those foundations and
Lend your towers skywards in articulated columnar
Architectures, build upon who you are, not who your
Neighbor is because your neighbor could be an idiot
Stuffing turkeys in a supermarket for specialty
Thanksgiving trimmings, your neighbor could be
A life failure without knowing it, and your neighbor
Could be the guy who wants to hit you with his car,
So for your sake, please forget all this old religion
Made for life in the desert, please forget all these
Conceptions of nonsense placed within you by the
Teachers of the dark Academies,
If not for your sake,
Then for mine, because
Parties have become abominations
Driving is a suicide risk
And love is the only thing that makes the day ok
In glittering gowns of arrayed sunlight.

two poems undivided by formalities

the mistake is religon,
those marred catherdrals of locks
placed on heaven's gate,
the mistake is free decision,
as if Jeff Buckley chose to drown
while falling off that dock into the lake.

engine symphony, materialist substrate,
idealist repetoire, and false malady
darkened by failure kings.

and i dont plan on answering
any more interrogatives as
they cross my sequence like jokes
with hooks, and i don't plan
on sealing the deal of ancient
harmony in exchange for a bunch
of shifty eyed dirty looks
because the rhyme scheme is really
simple; there are godless saints
and there are saintly crooks,
there are birthmarks in Van Gogh's paint
and there are death sentences
in popular books.

if i had a choice
between being loved by one person
and hated by everybody else
or being loved by everybody
and hated by one person
i would choose the former
because let me tell you
that it is impossible to love everybody
but it is possible to love somebody
like everybody,
it is possible to see everybody
in that one person, as it is possible
to become a part of that person
instead of being torn apart by
everybody. but,
don't let me tell you about possibilities
because you have to figure that out
on your own, you have to become possible
before certain possibilities become impossible,
like being in love with a person who isn't there;
like hating who you are,
like ------------------

remember that bad advice
either has no context or comes in the form of a poem,
remember that bad advice
comes in the form of ultimate tyranny
masqurading in the form of friendly suggestion,
and remember that I don't remember;
I am just someone who read the newspaper one day
I am just someone who walked to the park
and I am just someone who delivered a couple
of letters from out of state on the porches of
the recently confused, I am just a somebody rambling
in the shoes of a nobody,
my deepest friend.

ignorance climbing down into the canyon

The whirlwind of possibilities described in swaths of sunlight
make me bleed my nonsense on the floor of my steps like an accrued
night of the spirit and the darkness in between my neurons fashioned
like ancient trees highlights experience's gallery of beautiful disease
garnered like the motions of a sparrow's flight by the photographer
behind the eye who closes the shutter on the lens when the picture
is obscured by a disembodied hand that turns each image into the
palm of lined and reaching fights for freedom against the grasp
of a prison's handshake sealed with the lock of moonlight.

It's not a dance you've seen on the television of the spirit
or a man who walks with briefcase during daytime and in the night
chases after golden haired women; its a mechanism that's been seen
within the source of being's light, it's a delicate disease that
forms when you have to fight and it's a way to lengthen joy across
the boughs of blossomed branch with gentle twigs holding flowers like
tiny hands out to the reach of someone's elegent moon sky.

But we've spoken here in the neon cafe where the sun is absent from the day
and we've drank this cup before with sugar, and no one knows who has the right
to order the waitress nude upon the table just as no one knows who fashioned
light from stardust seeds and candled columns glowering from temple stairs.

And I don't know what I speak of when the flock of birds sweeps across the
burgeoning blue of the hallowed sky. I don't know even what fire is as it crosses
our mirrors and nestles in waxen feathers like a burden touched with flecks of
destruction's burning night, I don't know who appointed our dreams upon our sleep with feathered curls of dove-tails, and I don't know why I scramble across river-stones with a hopeless head as the rifles open fire in ravine nestled against the mountain, where I raised my voice high and shouted down my edge tales where the lightning snaps the flatness of the sky...

See me humble with my mall clothing as I buy another red wine, see me drink myself dry, see me ask for imagination's red sails to flutter high up the mast with the weekend wind manipulating the tell-tales above the heaving ocean's din...

What once was a treasure map has faded into the day, what once was a column of support became the rubble of clay, and what washed me with clear water has pulled me down the dark canyon with the torrents of tragedy, with the shattering of my days,

so here we are in sequence of time's graceful delay, so here we are in evening dress while the summer moves away, so here we are in our majesty while the rain moves its own way,

let me speak as I sin, oh traveled instrument of skin, let me sing if they win, my tired bones becoming flutes in some lost and unexplored weathered canyon...

dah dah de dah, dah dah

dee dah dee dum, dah,, dah duh dah

poetry by association

the unfamiliar clothes placed in the art gallery
to remind us of fashions statement crossing out
the ancient reverence for acts of nudity upon
the funereal ceremonies beneath the high point
of sunlight...

the dinner left in the slaughterhouse for the murdered
to eat before their execution brought untold retribution
upon the holders of the long knives,
ghost rebellion in the moonlight...

the engine placed within the horse's chest
to propel its legs in mechanical gesticulations
of material permission, the monstrosity of
mechanics blended with organics...

the empire lost with the past's pendulant motions
across the politics of removal and amnesia
that destroyed the starfish encased in lucite
with buzz bombs, landmines, toothsome bullets
and napalm that turned evening into daylight...

what have they given you,
but ritual and a sliver of starlight
some cigarettes, a cough in your chest
and a diminishment of firmament inside
your pulsating breast that turns your
flight into a heavyweight fight upon
the stones of antiquity encased in the
smiles of entertained god's who don't
meet out punishment, only happiness...

there is the possibility of finding the void
between people and calling it responsibility
to the loving voice that calls us on the wind
after the roughest weather,
and all the rains are overflowing the souls
lit by lantern in the glen of nature's gallery
where they let the horses ramble on snorting
like children glowing in the eve of birthdays,
where the empires build roads and public services
for the public servants and slaves taken care of
by kind masters who wash them with sunlight,
where the banquet unfurled across velvet robes
of tablecloth where jugglers walked on tabletops
and cracked jokes about spilled cups overflowing

where the clothing represented our art upon
our bodies like architecture covering only
our bare supports and reinforcements that
keep our ribcages from groaning at all the
ancient strife pulled out from beneath our
organs and shown as our sufferings in testament
to the value of false judgements...

basic leaf upon the pond,
in water both cold and soft
pushing wrinkles across the skein
of tension that made floating
fully formed with love and
sinking down into the mud
just a pasttime that happens
when the sky is storming...

elephant

the words are brightly colored elephants
remembering the characters we've kept in our head
and on the savannah they are traveling with tents,
parcels of spice, ornate women, and a caravan offering
prizes to the willow wisps of the ancient dead.

there were tortures that didn't touch us in there
where the airplanes hunkered like griffons amid the
florid smell of aviation oil swathed in the underground
hanger, and the engines stopped only when the aviators
failed, when the pilots locked their lips with bottles
of pain-relief called liquour rain that seeded the
soul's earth with desire's demand...

and the caravan scorched with napalm parades in between
its ribbon of flames with the priests kneeling beside
the heads of the long gone workers brought from Mexico,
touching their cold lips with blessed water that serves
as the salve of a notable archipelago where the secrets
of luscious cups had spilled across the meeting ground
until they were evaporated by the bonfire of community,

and the airplanes cut the sky into smears of engine gears
that fly machines through life towards the auspices of
the dead, they pushed their bombs into the earth and billowed
out scalps and little fingernails, the caravan wrapped
with ribbons of flames, the priests all touched with something
dark that had grown there below the catacombs inside the
coiffiture's of their aristocratic hairs, sometimes a sequence
is more than lost, like our caravan flaming before the airplanes
took off, and the airplane bombs returning to wing pylons,
carrying explosives from the Earth back to the underground
bunker where time travelers fulfilled peace's demand.

we seem to be caught in between the disasters that were unraveling
when the elephants pondered upon memory while traveling in the
savannah of snow, their eyes like glass orbs seeing what goes unsaid
as their tusks could only grow in curvatures made for defense of the
young from the insane old, and our lives are brewing inside the cups
of what the caravan brings with its enflamed and fiery tune that
could teach us how we long forgot about what was softly said
inside the nomad's room, so now we come back to drink the pilot's
liquour painted red.

weapons in the meadowed moonlight

...thrashings of morality in the firmament of banality
these wonderous engagements that lock us to rearrangements...

...instead of drinking my desire to the bottom of the floor, i've had a couple pints of courage and now i'm on fire like only flames can be, i'm dancing in the moonlit graves where order locked its grid across with rows of tombstones fashioned after some artificial geometrical sequence and i'm laughing on the floor with a steel-toe boot in my small intestines, the pain is so close that it looks like a mountain floating over a comfortable forest...

...and the rifle sounds stopped me alive in my tracks like snapping twigs across the stacks of hay that melted into the auburn meadow like gorgeous ladies outdancing the grassy floor and it was a light upon the shadow that caused the old fight between the horse and mare, the misunderstanding of colors locked in an ancient stare, it was me there amid the guns in the black sunset's light, it was me out there in the meadowed forest scrambling with heart beating for the humans behind the triggers that zagged quicksilver across the heather...

...and you will find the glimmer of the gun barrel in untouched meadow curved white with the moonlight, I pitched my weapons into the grass and smoked a long forlorn cigarette when I realized that it was only me I was trying to fight, and the decay of old orders rolled on like a pendulum swinging left and right, only the motion gestured arcs across the sunlight that we called the history of humanities bright progress amid survival's fight...


...the machinegun blossoms bloom under a tortured weather, fiery tongues stitched across flesh firm and young, the mechanical insects hissed with their buzzing...

...and its not some simple game you play to keep yourself busy during the day, it's survival and its wearing an executioner's smile, but when you flirt with death and roll in her hay, she's kinder, softer, and even delicately warmer...

...the misted windows with crumpled windowpanes where we threw our gasoline bombs into in the old refrain of fire mixed with dark deep smoke and how the house of order turned into a sickle cell swath of cinders across the former building...

...they crackled with lost tricks and crumpled with the sound of auto-backfires, so scarred of what was forming that they took off from the cities and finished their warring, too soon do we travel upon the earth's arc like little bullets filled with a spark, its not humane to whisk across the mountains, and inside tunnels long and deep the angels are all fast asleep dreaming up their next desire as it billows like weather freshly storming...

the only autobiography i will ever write seeded with paranoiac theme

and the drinks are piling up like towers on the tabled surface of earthen platforms
while the brink of life is edging after those who are vociferous in the mountain day
well so what, barely anybody sees me, I am replete with paltry wisdom and some cigarette
smoked meanings that flew from the air in the form of flames...

and decayed aircraft train their shattered lenses to stare at me
because i've drank the waters of the Lethe and instead the Lethe
forgot me,
and the mountain's are fair
and so is your hair when it wavers
above a molar shaped boulder
that we held onto with our fingertips
and embracing arms tamed by the sun

see those aircraft take off with my best friend in the cockpit,
crooked wallet in dangerous hand held to shade the light in his eyes.

please

please tell me that the stars are not our vultures, hovering
that the light they bleed out into darkness surrounding the
lanterned world is for us to use with ancient measures of
navigational lore, following the twins, leaving the bull
behind us with the crab and the scorpion as our protector.

please tell me something I will listen to,
I am sick of masquerades that devolve into Dostoyevsky,
mantlepieces thrown across the banquet table by some
drunken soldier.

please help me answer to the presence of no questions
when they should be warrented, like how I got arrested
for walking across the street and asked where I thought
I was going after my ex-father informed me that he was
protected from danger by the ghost of a dead baby that
hovers over his head like a shining plastic ornament,
please tell me that justice is not an agency of man
for the laws we seem to learn are only concerned with
limits of velocity and prison philosophy, please tell
me that tonight the stars will burn away the archaic
haze that poisoned our vision since the inception of
the camera of the eye, please tell me that you love
me without material conditions but that when I fuck up
you will do what is best for the both of us, please tell
me that the songs I sing are quaint and without effect
because I would hate to be lulling all these internet
sojourners into a false sleep with the mistaken beauty
of a few bright colored words here and there while the
sentences war with each other, letters raised like iron
swords across the meadow of the page.

and please, please be your kind self upon the plains
of community, please tell me something, but with
immanence and importance, and please, please, please
tell me the truth, and please, (this is my last request),

please promise that this time you will make it right.

patchworked skies born of intellect and a gnawing dread that articulates the distances between oneself and the dark moon with space, that ancient tune

sometimes I am alone in this alternative dimension
where the holes in the sky foreshadow our dark ascension
in a serial flaw of reductionist materialism paired with
the vespers of an irrational spirituality
because i've been flown into the miasma of broken images
that I patched together using the universe as my template
and the serious guardians of secrets lie about even the most
banal ways to put your life back together when you're bleeding
in the violet heather and there is always something to hold
on to that burdens you with weights and glue, that says
let us remember why we are anchored to earth but no
one ever can because its not clear if it is for the good
of the gravity of our lives or solely for our comfort.

let the machines win their supplely stupid game where all
the church steeples mechanize the spirit's refrains of
ghostly demonstrations enslaved in the wordly buttressed tradition
of damaging rituals consisting of rolling on the tile floor
with distances between outstreatched hands holding rosaries
like the instruments of black witches burnt not by man but
by the eloquent gesticulations of a vengeful Pan who with
the seeds of night blew all the sparks into fires forming

lights held in the cracks of the catacombs that snake in between
our favorite buildings with corpses resting in thick tallow beneath
the blankets of cobwebs, with ancient clergy tending to the wounds
of death like doctors drinking volatile spirits for the numbness
ingrown with surgery's butchering war upon the catalysts of our
inner dominion.

and I am listening to the radio while trying to be polite,
I'm crying wine tears in the ancient night
and no one seems to burn from this longing,
it's not a fear, a flight, or a fight
but just some simple loss of light
that burns us up with the dark engines of inquisition
finished with flags that dragged their blood
across the horizon during national twilight
and kept our artistry from fully forming.

i'm on a ledge seeking the edge of endings fully kept
beneath our dark dreams within the cold night billowing with
ice wind beneath the candled moon and speaking with a mandolin's
frail rapid tune about how even the most forlorn of us are in need of warnings
from simple birds and difficult words that grace our sequined sky
with life's angel verbs and call us down from our mountains with
the force of turbulent emotions storming like vibrant explosions,

leave your disease and breathe ginger whispers instead,
leave your hated street and follow the streetlights to their end
where they become set in shallow sky with the most ancient of lights
called starshine locked within the veldt of space's shadow revealing
asterisms rather than some fabeled bull's inarticulated head,
you're made to rest with strength upon the hills of troubled states
you're made to leave into the forests where they greet you with rifle fire
instead of lips and flowers softly forming the ends of desires storming.

i'm on the shoulder of the Broadway exit, my feet are cankered
my soul is quiet as I gaze out on the Spanish tile rooftops
where the calcified lives are laid out like a Rubix cube of
tudors and boutique shops.

people atop this crucifix of broad daylight, scything with heaven's light
the art of synchronizing the flawed remarks with the winds that travel in the universe's hallway, those nebulous conversations breathing with the strings of an atomic theory, with dry desire locked up in Jupiter's tower, with socialites barred out and all the wounds of my sufferings healed up from language lashings on the deck of the diamond sidewalk.

and the lines of flight were catalogued in the wild hearts that terrified the simple minds without a light, the answers of serious questions came upon us like a hurricane tearing down the crystaline cathedral dedicated to milk and gumdrops, and a cautious handsome god who raised his shoulders in an act of surrender so that old grandmothers may tell their grandchildren stories about the Santa Claus god who parceled packages of the spirit like an assembly line worker placing mechanical parts to fill the orders of the longest walk to the shoulder of the freeway, to the ribcage of the airport, to the delicate wristbones of the pier.

and the holes were stuck between the cashier and customer in the decaying flaming markets where loss is what they have to give and gifts are what made us live in the slight aisles where all the frost was forming.

they put engines on aeroplanes to make them mad with power and put chains on bicycles to keep them from quickly roaming, they put wheels on grocery carts
to turn the rattled cage across the desert of produced trash they call divine, supple, and soul bonding. they drank upon the stack of bodies like two gladiators
who had just finished for the first time all their warring, and they sleep
upon the fettered bed stained in blood, its feathers red, and drank themselves
to stupidity with empty wine bottles that showed the color of emeralds in the
young light of some blue steel morning.

it is always about a girl
it is always about a boy
who got sick of being some human toy
and smashed the store to its iron moorings

its always about parents
its always about the gods
and its always about you and me,
this paper land i've managed to built
where we can pretend with alphabets
that we are free

i'm on the shoulder of the freeway, the divine trash is conspiring to smile down the beatific vision of some ancient math that buried all the meanings in its measures,
i'm on the collar of the skyscraper, watching beetles crawl by in candy colored shells
i'm on the nose of the archaic mountain, freezing my ass off in a wind that smells of soft orange rinds gathering the forest dew in a swath of mottled glory
i'm on the fingertip of catastrophe's handprint as it stamps out all the sand bees with calloused palm and observes with touch the sweet crescent of the secret beach like a gallery of granules mote-speckled and periwinkled, sand piper flecked and opaleye fingered, i'm on the worst of it, i'm on the best of it, and i'm on to both of you who weren't willing to begin to comprehend, and i'm on the motion of a curvaceous valley that sings with its condensation the sweetened veil of a woman's song.

the texture of curious assositations

well call me unassumed anarchy, chaos magic hat wearing dismal cigarette smoker,
the interest you refuse to eat
catatonic hyper-venelating robots locked in causeways motion, turning in their sleep
mumbling bright things about shiny treasure earrings, locking their doors
with their mouths and wearing gloves upon their feet.

ambulance rides and dismal technicians in fascist uniforms trailing IV lines
from their fingertips into the inner crook of elbows, this is where they
call you just another piece of meat, well limo rides in the edge of August
and bicycles driving down the broken street, finding you in the depths of
a dismal wine-soaked dream

hypocritical business platforms cut out of paper dolls relying on the placement
of falsely worded votes, and blanket shields for nightmare engineering on the
roads that made me weep.

engines go towards what should be called backwards
when the direction forwards is with your feet.

calico industrial recycling power in the form of restaurant lanterns kept to
keep an eye on the rope hanging from your collar, fighting the dishes
that fashioned us as quixotic in reactionary leaps, while you say go towards
the edge of disaster, I am clutching at my aching feet,
while you say march forwards into the shrapnel hereafter, I am content to weep.

hypocritical justice in unfairness of appropriation of the means for production,
engineering, transportation, distribution, and even lying awake in the miasma of the dream

farmer's yields shaped for the sake of economics, and liars with no beliefs.

anachronistic political stews bubbling for the sake of vegetables and towels drying in the sewage breeze,
horrific cockroaches crawling outside the riotsphere and drinking in their sleep,
idle work and damaged words upon the magazines, printed with replete curious hypnotic gestures
to make imprisoned illustrations speak.

call me business, call me cataleptic word engineerer, but don't call me what you believe
because love is my only mistress, and not the billowing figures of interest in the broken bank.

effervesce the waters in the dark canyon with the heat of the sun's array
and glow in billowing tragedy at the dawning of the day
because the armature of greatness lies within your pulsing breast
like a battleship painted navy gray and the apparatus of beginnings
works its mechanics during all your fey rests, so let the gravity of
treasure maps sweep away your darkest day, let the flash floods
signifying the end reverse in time and fade like a waterfall flowing
up a canyon, like a dark fettered play where the actors talk backwards
and the curtain is made of rain.

sight upon the shelf in the middle of the corner,
laundry piled in smells on the armchair of the coroner
see the way ancient furniture is made up with upholstry
sewn to grown-ups like clothes that we wore all day...

...we've made the way, now show yourself how to play...

hearing treasures locked in audible trunks scraping on the sidewalk
all you pull your belongs away down the street towards the legend
of your map, the one that you made
with cheesecloth and periwinkle shells,
and with embroidery's dusty remains
find the edge of the city's canyon all covered with grass blades.

and in the winter of the morning when you're sleepy and fey
recite humbly the values of your loving life in a pattern that stays
close to desire's pushcart all wrapped in silk and humor's golden fruit
of a face, remember that tragedy is how you perceive something to be that way.

in the eloquent natures of our suburban fringe forest where the trolls had all walked away
from the answers grown narrow and languishing in the test of the meadowed day
we escaped the inset spiral locked in the dark grass that twirled the world's clay
into steeples made of people's bones, that graveyard of mansions in the coast light,
bleached with star light like an eerie banyan moving over swamp grass in stillness
in the heat of swamp night, in the delicate and pervasive moon light.

mercy belongs to the angel in man, the supple grace of the hesitation of flaming scythe, and sometimes it stops below the chin only to regret the decision, but this is the problem with mercy, which delegates weakness upon the moral character to make it all the more principled.

and love is an allegation of desire pressed into the servitude of a miasmia of kaleidescope emotions, love, the old wine bottle afloat on the seas yearning to deliver its curled letter in the swirls of ocean currents proclaiming the windy path we must travel sometimes to find each others hand that delivers words from deep with inside the vessel.

and justice is a condition of judgement, a balance kept by the weighing of certain scales kept uncognizantly within the market of the soul.

and madness is wisdom, madness can be genius, but madness is not insanity.

oh tilted earth swimming on its axis, the angels wept the other day when you tried to call it down from its revolutions, when you tried to order ellipses into square circles without the Zen mentality that moves like delicate cherry blossoms slightly undulating in the emerald breeze.

oh ancient harmonies that lock repletion with a silver key, where does the repose of your locks build prisons and where do your prisons build freedom within themselves like an archaic paradox that says the least free are the most free?

heaven-sent articles etched into sand with a yew branch, learn to listen and to see, learn to care for the ancient melodies, and learn to love something as simple as an old oak tree.

send me off to war for you, lead me to my surrender
i've wrote a whole bookstore for you and now I can't
remember how we ever talked with the blades of words
because each page I mark is soft as snow.

send me back home for you, lead me to my bedroom
there's dust and cobwebs gathered there beneath
the ebony credenza, and I fought all the wars
I ever will with my heart's reflecting iron will
but my brain began to break like an old broom,
crackling with entropy inside its golden room,
my headaches warned of something close, my ideas
warmed like bread to toast.

And the elegance would have claimed to you that I
was disarranged like a remedial highschool,
and the eloquence would have rearranged for you
the facts which I might have explained to you
in verses, stanzas, words, and arrows
scrying from the sky's blizzard built like a meadow.

the writing life

Since I was a kid I wanted to become a writer. Now I have become one. I don't say that about myself usually, but often times you have to reaffirm your role in life when the bastards are trying to make you into something you are not. I am a writer, a writer of poetry and fictions. Whatever else you say, you cannot hold this against me. Because the truth is that people know little about writers as people, because often times people fail to listen to what writers have to say. People should listen though. Writers are full of wisdom. They eat wisdom with their breakfast.

My goal in life is not to travel anymore. I have seen enough of the human creature to know that character studies are best drawn up at home. I have seen enough of the world, not to call myself worldly, but to call myself seasoned. People call me an old soul sometimes. Maybe they are right.

But what I really want to say is that you too can write. It takes work, patience, and takes you to the edge of madness, but you too can sit down with a dollar pencil and sketch out a scene from your day. You too can drink coffee in cafes, propped with a notebook and record what you see. It is truely that simple.

But the grace of writing comes from the antiquated notion of what human beings call a soul. If you don't have one, maybe you shouldn't be writing. There is enough of that. Works on sexual escapades that are tantamount to the common biology of a half a million year old species, works on gossip, cute little books about how to really stick it to someone you hate, these have proliferated bookstores in the place of modern literature. It is possible that the people with souls grew frustrated long ago and quit, saying goodbye to their faith in the human race. It is possible that the people with souls hid underground long ago, for fear of what their former captors would do to them should they show them the light of the soul.

Soul is such a cliche word; you can substitute 'life' or 'essence' but I prefer to call it 'flowers' or even milk toast with a slice of tomato, because the people without flowers are jealous of the people who have grown them, the people without tomato sandwiches are jealous of the ones who have them. It is the old kindergarden game from here to eternity. What do you have that I don't? Please give it to me so I can ruin it. And so on.

But writing is also a means of developing the soul. If you don't have one and you want one, start writing in all honesty. Write about what a sexist prick your drug dealer boss is, write about why you hate paying eleven bucks to go sit in some fridge of a movie theater, write about the time your father took you fishing for trout at some lake overgrown with weeds, write about anything. Because the place that you write from is your home, it is the talent of the heart that you are developing, not some way to become famous, sexy, cool, sleek, clever, or a hit at cocktail parties. I never liked people who were hits at parties anyways. They always struck me as insecure masturbators who failed at getting laid because they tried too hard. Writing is like that too. You really can't be a hit, or try to hard. It has to come out as it will, maybe a trickle there or here, sometimes a frightening torrent, but its always there.

Writing is a home. As a home, it is a good place to start building, to invite friends over to look at your accomplishments, to sing the praises of humanity and to sing their curses like a wild bore. Because lets face it, the reason people don't write is because they find it boring. Compared to a machine that gives you a thousand orgasms a minute like television, writing seems like a complete and boring old waste of time. But it's not. It teaches you to trust your mind, even the lunatic ideas that keep you awake at night, wondering if you are a paranoid schizophrenic with multiple personality disorder who might be a liability to loved ones. But you're not. You are uniquely you, and so is your writing.

Lets face it. People can be jerks. If you decide to dedicate yourself to the writing life, people are going to make fun of you. "What are you doing in there, pecking away by yourself with all these imaginary characters?" Well, writing, you should say. But it is easier sometimes to break down and cry, to blame the act instead of realizing that the people around you are insecure in their own occupations, so they want to take it out on you for finding something that appears to be bringing you actual and genuine joy. Don't listen to these people, as much as you want to. They have no idea what they are doing, and can't even do a half-assed job of anything. Sometimes they are clever liars, but that is about it. There is no need to even talk to them, unless you are planning an extravagant character study.

So what I am saying is to write. Get up from your sofa or bed, place a pen on the page and move it in little spirals until you get enough gumption to form words, which will string themselves into sentences, which in turn form paragraphs. Who knows, you might be on your way to your very first novel. Just sit down, and write.

For Erika

two-eyed lady, sing awhile about the light of Dover.
red-haired lady, stay awhile and write about the clovers.
well we hunted around the shopping mall block for a cart
that would conceal our deepest clothes and mirror their lot
in spirit of what sealed their lives in trash talk, and
now the war is over. so blue eyed lady, sing with your smile
and tell me about the rovers who travel the meadowed land
with flippant and brusque style, who gather up the clover.

we played in the room with the vanilla perfume of old wallpaper
and love letters, and when the angels came to sweep with their
brooms we laughed about how we felt much better after the wine
had tapered our thought into a humming sound the sequence of music
played after we fought for all the towns named Dover.

Drink to me lady, and we'll sing awhile about the angles of the corner
all ornate with silken spiders and cobwebs dwindling their skeins across
the former governor. So two eyed lady, lets lay in the sand when the
night is over, so black-haired lady, stay awhile with eyes that smile
wider than the wild gift I offer to you, the one well you know that
they couldn't close or drown, the gifts of chirping sparrow sounds,
yes two-eyed lady please stay awhile and watch how we grow older.

where the moon curves streets into moss pearl bends,
you find me bending song into a violin with equity
for bow and instrument, drilling notes with delicate
trills, and not for me, but for you love, for you
my loves.

I speak in silence with the eloquent whispers of starlight
coursing through bloodlines, my ancestors name was "Morning Star"
and like him, I subsume new monikers for new places, and assume
old names in ancient homes. But do not call me a liar,
for I have never told a lie, well that is my first lie of the day.

I wish to meet you at the train station, you who threaded my heart
with golden curls of love's ancient lace that traveled from truck
to boat to track with the delicate loopings of a dragonfly's ease,
buzzing with tensile power. To you I dedicate this memory of sights
in Seattle, the buses moaning, the women slowing, and the coffeeshops
closing me down; the ancient scenes plucked like harps from dreams
that taught me just how to calm down.

I wish to speak with you under lamplight at even a slovenly restaurant
that serves ample props to enact a consolate conversation; the margins
of love are what I am after, the footnotes, appendicies, indexes, and
jotted notes looping with serpentine innuendo.

The only promise I make is that one day I will bring you flowers,
violet germaniums and softened peonies luffing with the weight of perfume.



I am not a robot, I am not a creep, I am not a blow-off, and I will not be put to sleep, so carry me with the cradle of your hands to where even the redwoods lay low, and marble arches crenulated in the twilight carry volumes of both star and stone.

Bainbridge Island

Bainbridge Island sits replete with various curiosities, sandwiched in between Seattle and Quimper penninsula, it offers many an allurement to the brief guest, and has few amenities. But what is most interesting to me about the place is the people who frequent the docks, restaurants, pubs, and boardwalks with the stifled negligence of the recently castrated, the apoplexic loss of passion paved over by a yearning for the natural in only the external. What I am wondering, and it may be a glib question, is where do these people come from? Surely I know of their location, but of their homes I know little to nothing for I have never been invited inside one, indeed it is uncustomary to invite travelers into anything here, including the most banal conversation. Exceptions include the boat-owners, who appear as a kind of outcasted rabble with little unity or connection with each other besides their amazing passion for sailing and power vessels, a connection which many people often lack. But this brings up an interesting observation in my mind at least, which is the concept of home. What is home, anymore?

You are probably imagining a two story white house with a picket fence, maybe a garden, and a family consisting of husband and wife caring for one or two children. But a home can be so much more than that, and simultaneously, so much less. For home is our sense of place as we move through the world, some people leave it, others are looking for it, yet others claimed to have found it, and some people never will. It is a troublesome topic. As Ursula K Le Guin says "You can always go home as long as home is a place you've never been," which brings up interesting ideas, home as a transient place, not locked down to the meaning of structure, home as a place in training perhaps. Because wherever I am is my home, no matter where I am. I am always with myself, so myself becomes a home.

But the people here try to invade my home. It is as simple as that. They gawk, make rude gestures and comments, and have never engaged me in anything that can be called a polite conversation, though one man tried (really it seemed more like information gathering about these 'out of towners,' as if strangers were ever really a threat to anybody). So it is with due confidence that I relinquish my home from them, the one's they both neglected and punished, ( i am thinking of a lady in particular who tried to charge me $50 to use the computer), while obviously their homes served as mere facades for the acceptance of the death instinct. Settle down and die should be the motto here, though I'm sure that mottos galore must be coming out of the mouths of the townsfolk.

viewing pleasure on the balcony of the apartment with cigarette and wine in hand

see me drinking malt beverages on the corner of the ocean, where the sun plays its warm pulp upon the skin of certain flowered moments, but who's there with angelic walk outs from a strike that became what locked out my desire from the false systems of the world.

verily, we were all talked out, and wearily we began to walk out of our plastic cages arrayed like museums in the desolate days of old order the color of marble.

ancient singing in the belfry, no bats this time, only soft relief of sculptures singing like painted masterpieces upon the darkened spires of our dream city's desires, the ancestral homes where we spoke out like archaic speakers torn out of an antiquated radio. so speak with me about the block out, why does it work and not for everyone who recieves the fall out, do you understand?

Who is this man?

Seething scenes from the post-ambulance chariot ride, what we'd bring came from the white halls and room 33, where they silently waited like vultures in the desolate dance of an exasterbated dream. pianos lined the ceiling, and what more, the violins were stinging all the nurses and doctors who couldn't imagine play.

Angel of songs, release your wand, you don't need their magic anymore, angel of love, release your dove into the soft sound of the wind carrying dandelion seeds across the brows of lonely desperate people who are at their end.

And were we seen, their memories would be blocked out, by serpentine flowers vined around what was chalked out on the pavement, a child's drawing with wise words that say "who are you? and who are you? and who are you? and who are you?" as if it were just a hopskotch game.

Do you really drink from the fountains of antiquity or are you drinking ale in the house of inequity?

Wise men say...

arched trees scything sky over the reddened crevice of the canyon

stretching free like angel wings above the mercies of small things and what is levened by our heart strings.

see me look up in awe at the skies blue silohuette burgeoning with light and shadow
see me wake up after death and become purple with rage at the lies of the doctors
see me there where I woke up, because honey we weren't made to be broke up, but to lay gently against the flowered window pane. See me there in the exhaust fumes, a little cautious there in someone else's room, but see me as someone who knows how to play...

i came from beneath the floorboards after drinking hurricanes with stories of live-aboards, and hear me say "What do you want?"

I want love in the autumnal meadow, I want to be changing the light with the smell of your perfume, I want the delicate life, I want the toughened spirit enlightened by the quinissential sea shells calcified on the beach by the sea spray, I want not to want, I want to live like a king among the poor.

I had a dream that doctors put my brain in a virtual reality progream to see if I was fit to live in society,

I had a dream that I told the doctors off, that I said they didn't have to do it, because i'd be ok anyways.

I had a dream that vespers wrapped their vined light around my torso and carried me off to a tower in space where the earth was subject to mockery and the food was all disgusting space junk.

I had a dream that wisdom spoke to me in little verses the color of death, that little tiny words were making up the sense of guilt we carry around with us.

I had a dream that doctors were made to be told off, that they got everything wrong when they said truth without desire was a disease.

I had a dream that you and me were in a velvet room painted by Rodin, where everything was set up as carefully as a chessboard and we played all night and all day though we didn't know which was which.

I had a dream that the eloquent harmonies coming from our mouths might be made to resemble the eloquent harmonies of the heart.

I had a dream that people should not be controlled, I had a dream that people should not be told, and I had a dream that I would never be too old, not really, but you know how it goes with dreams and dreaming, they are semblences of what we are after, protecting us admist old useless disasters.

Erika, I love you.

I love all of you.

in the cadence of cacophony

what tempered justice is this that we discover when goodness reaches its flag towards the edges of the sky, not in a gesture of surrender, but in propogation of war? Do the flowers come into play, or are they a window dressing, like the people we once knew to be well, the people we once knew to be good?

Scatter leaves upon the brow of engine hoods and wipe the dirt from under your fingernails when it is time to travel, when it is time to take off in an expansive flight the color of long roads and various transience. Do not be afraid, they will not hurt you. Do not stay with fear, for fear only hurts the afraid.

Idle quotations among creme wallpaper apartments, glasses clinking to the misery of the impoverished. What beauty is missed, what beauty is fostered, is beauty even a word any more that one can use to describe the disambiguation of the elite?

I smoke cigarettes, which have been trying to kill me for years.

I smile in the moment and frown in the future, for tanks are made for traveling and machineguns are made for stationary words, the rattle of the keyboard staccato augmenting our ancient musics with cacophony of crackling light and sound.

Be with me, someone, and we will move to the North where they whistle on oxen bones and flair their ears with flowers, where they amass their lives like armies in a cathedral, where we scour the pulpit to find the last honest priest.

wellness is a virtue, in body, mind, and spirit. when the three align, you have happiness.

let me speak to you of shallow platitudes that hunger for the genuine, let me remain silent, let me humble myself before the good of humanity and let me lay on the grass with my hands arrayed to accept the vespers of moonlight as light glances across my hands in replete form of soft fingertips and pulsating ivy.

they don't know us anymore, the ones who forget. they forget because of their own lives, they forget because of things, and they forget because they forget.

Rest my head across your arms,
it's been a long week going love
and the cackling in the city isn't
just the sound of ravens because
we fought for once and the flowers
exploded in purple and yellow articulations
of something else entirely, like
explosions of truths in people,
like dancing with the devil with no shoes on
like calling down thunder upon the city
of hive minds, nestled in wax catacombs.

It's been a long time coming love,
it's been a long time since you came around my door
and it's been a long time loving girl
because they can't sell us love at the liquor store.

but we were so beautiful once, we were so beautiful
twice, and we were so beautiful in the quiet scene
by the boat on the river, moving drunkenly like an
idle leaf upon the skein of effervescent waters
with the reflection of street lights wavering like
candles, with Paris offered to our love like some
insane bounty, some festival of soft lights that
look like people at last.

Oh nightengale tail splayed like feathered fans across the arc of the watercolor sky,
was it you that lead me nightward, or did i lead myself? For I have been traveling the solo path for two long, I have lead myself and others have tried to interfere, but for the fact that I know who I am.

If you are out there, I love you, and I mean that like the mist that rises in pink dawn. I mean that like the wine bottle travels on seas in curled journies to deliver a sodden message to a destined discoverer, i mean that like a mountain means itself, i mean that like hope meeting fulfilment means happiness, and i mean it like i mean it; sad, sullen, somnolent, vivacious, burning up with all this dry garbarge people call wealth.

If you are out there, please answer.

Love,
Steven

Seattle

singing is some kind of illegal apparently, especially when your song is better than all the part time schleps scuttling around like busy body ants, climbing all on top of each other. I didn't meet a single kind soul in Seattle, among thousands of people, not a one, maybe slightly a barista who was getting paid to be kind, but that is about it.

It has come to my attention that very few people are having genuine experiences anymore. The reason being that the people seem so wrapped up in materiality and the grotesque pursuits that they have long ago given up their humanity for a Nokia phone, for a white picket fence, for a disasterous marriage; that people are giving up their souls not for safety, security, or even love, but for the base disambiguous concretia of urban banality.

What people don't realize is that a Mercedes isn't going to save them in a car accident, that a college education isn't going to prepare themselves for the trials and tribulations of married life, and that a steady job isn't going to keep food prices and gasoline from soaring through the roof.

People have a real problem. That problem is that they are generally trying to get other people to do something for them, whether it be growing food on a corporate pesticide strewn farm, or raising their children instead of letting the television do it for them. This is a disgusting way of life, this is the way of life people have picked over kindness, compassion, love, and all the genuine experiences that make life truely worth living.

It is a vicious circle; you lose your soul and its hard to stop losing it. But at the least, if you feel pain when you're loosing parts of your soul due to various machinations, you still know that you have one left.

"But I don't weep,
do you?"

were we woken from this dream,
who would find us in bed...a wife,
someone else, or would you be by yourself?

escape from this dream
before your father hears you,
escape my lovely one, please escape.

way down in January our icicle thoughts
resided in our annual tax brackets and
way down in February we drank until
our tears came out inside the curtained
veil of simple luxury.

Find another dream that listens to your worries,
find another place that fathoms all your hurries,
discover what we placed inside the books of yearning
it was a lock, it was a key, but now its you and me.

say an angel were to cry, what would it mean for
lurkers swimming around the holy grail, around
the replete mania of frenzied thought effervescing
like a railroad engines steam whistle, what would
it mean for you, because I have a gentle feeling
that it would cover up me in tracks of sand like
a beach reaching out its crescent hand, that the
way we've been raised is what our enemies are
trying to erase now,

in the veils, of certain faces, there lies disgrace...

see me talk like a rock, hear me whistle like a thistle,
listen:

anonymus love letter #7

drinking wine on the fourth of july like a lonely heartache
trapped within an aching muscle, we who are condemned with longing
like a flock of seagulls cawing towards the inside of the city.
Do not stay with fortitude and do not go without it, for the summer
is coming in resplendent hues and the girls will be laughing to
the ancient tunes of your instrument in the soft grasses where
the disarrayed repose like sequined veils above t he truth of
earthen vessels.

We spoke in nighttime like guilty cowards, we addressed each other
like milk-eyed menders and drank whisky to completion of some
ethereal feeling they call drunkeness, we who live to die and
are taught to die to live.

Fields of sorrow for those who do not follow beauty, fields of
meadows for those who marry love, with splendors nestled like
treasures in the lucent shaded grass beneath the weeping willow,
with trestled bridges overflowing above rivers, and the sound
of the archer who could not be called down from his star will
ever more ring through the ears of the damned were they to reproach
him for his true shots. But this is after death, where it to occur,
in the fields of the seas splayed golden like tinctures of blue light,
ethereal and jealous of the sky but somnolent in its being.

Where in does the comfort lay? In creating, in imagining, in the dark
robust knife that they call the mind. Send me your ear, oh love, and
I will send you mine. That is some kind of love, with a purpose,
but unknown except to the most starry eyed, the ones heavensent
by certain articulations to infuse pale dolls with heavy meanings.

Dream, dee, dah.

Here I sit reposed inside the belly of a vessel,
here I sing unnoticed like a whisper from a candle.
Here, we met and talked out when the seams burst and the sun got blocked out,
see me stand in pale anguish when the city turns to gold, when the stories
of fantastic men have gone untold.

Harbor the advantages of what is locked out, when your keys break in the door
they call you locked out, but listen to what the wise man says.
"Do you really think, that anybody gives a blue goddamn?"

neverland wakefullness in rabbit hole dreams
amid a sequence of mirrored glass in the vain
city, watching raindrops fall on delicate tongues
curled like pink mementos of true speech. The
early morning brought us instincts that talked
in verbs, and the afternnon brought some delicate
architect to the cathedral of the heaet.
But where we lay tonight is not the lion's den
nor the scattered vespers of the moon's silent dreams.
we lay in dirt, we lay on stone, we lay in what
the ignorant could not call a home, but merely
ourselves, our quiet selves silently moving
randomly through labyrinths until the exit is clear,
silently ever warrenting our creations of sleep.

remember the rhyme in the ember that frictions
it to such a billowing fire, remember this side
of Jupiter to send more letters out into the
veldt of urban miasma convulsing, contracting,
and expanding like a writhing storm of concrete
asphalt and glass.

nyosis

glimmering steel rims on painted bird camero, swinging in screeches
downtown in watercolor afternoon, effervescing ancient rituals from
spherical rotations revolving in brainwork, thinking softly about loving
you and life, drinking coffee on the dashboard.

Eyes gaping at talented repose beneath picaresque columns, Samson beneath
the veil of visibility, roaming like a hurricane through the blind-eyed
drama of urbane department store glitter and bank credit manuals, steering
his feet with the handlebars of dreams and dreaming with the bicycle chain
of simple engines, ever long and soft.

Greyhound station after telephone call after telephone call, they drink us
in with thine eyes so lusciously opaque like sunset in a cup of coffee, the dark
night of world's black half living inside of us.

"Oh, so your bus leaves tomorrow?" And a laugh.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, well, you know the old story about tomorrow.

We smoke our cigarettes in eloquent wisps of blind emissions, we call collect during intermission, and we make solace seem like a tranquilizer, sleep like a pale fish curving nightwards in elegant sweeps of pearl-laden tail, we awoke, we awoke, if only just to sleep again in this transient dream.

do not project your darkness onto others,
it is very unbecoming.

by the river

oh delicate nighttime of the day pressed into our eyes like soft illusion,
how the traffic stares and stops to gape at prescient notions of elaboration
on the old theme of control; control made beautiful? If only the control of the
self, we have deigned into what Jung called rare and emerged the better for it.

Golden harps in lounge restaurants and lizards louging in quick flits of tongue
conversation, these are the contrasts of life sometimes like a hurricane's calm
in the center of the eye. And the houses lift up, the moon pulls them up with
the shapes of light intersecting in the middle of the clouded sky.

How dare we, you ask, well you dared us to, and now maybe this is nothing
but not a fight, because every living thing is concerned with survival
even when they are removed from cognition of death, well, almost every living
thing, suicide is man's exception, but don't quote me on that, it comes from Camus.

Eloquent afterlife's shimmering in harp chords played stylish verbs like Masoch,
see the elvin shoes upon the woman strumming and singing, hear the elegant intonations of audible flowers, smell the musk of centuries beneath the floorboards
rising to the sky, taste the judgements of a writer asking you to listen, because there is little room for error in the bloody skies.

Words are carried in hallowed french horns the color of your neck, and sentences
interlock within your mind, hear the goddesses who spoke in terms of love bring you basking in the sunrise, oh Aphrodite, your strings are carried in interlaced words the color of veiled miasma.

There is a rusty love in this engine heart tonight that scrapes along the surface of petaled marrow, there is a musty look in these mirror eyes tonight as the conductor calls upon the scarecrow, but there's snow in the nighttime, and wind in the tinkering chimes, which says of love that there is something between truth and sin.