Single file, like in the native's way
to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace.

The leftover and forward
once again make sign to a favorite son.

They pause and worship a clay idol,
as much contrite as devoted.

Forgive me friend their eyes say,
"I was not there".

Or, forget me friend,
"There was more than I could handle".

The idol responds to the
deep wishes of their heart,

projecting back upon the somber
all that they desire.

They will carry now a piece,
each a piece of the pain

and nurture a wound in proportion
to what their projection's demand.

Sinful suplex

Please enjoy my humble attempt at verse:

When wilted, wills collide
and flesh tones sound unceasingly
in love's great unknown.
Sinful suplex, where harm's slayed,
caught enraptured
with limp limbs splayed.

Post riders and chariots of desire
bed down.
Ceasing shame
prior to well-earned rest,
wilted now only in name.

daily constitution

Embrace the body's natural longing for a happy norm.
It's the way a step takes place, a collected pacing
that is alluring and energized...
And all resistance against the untimely death of a
leisure lap.

I've sworn an oath to uphold in subjective tones,
but the worthy object is the daily one.
It is the one that mends in cascades of introspection,
and owes itself to itself as pride would without
the taint of sin.

The happy norm is
the utopian sense of bounding unobstructed
and it moves on and on in this sullen world.

My friend

     Yes he saw him
     and knew his intentions.
     Yes, of course there 
     is an anxious flush.
     Handsome faces force
     their way into
     memories with a
     blinding speed.

Sweats breed
like fruit flies
across the faint 
worry lines of
his face.

     He steps on 
     high achievement
     like a laden stone,
     pronouncing something
     like it's 
     history's forgotten
     place mat.

All these indiscretions
and distractions 
that agitate him
to no end.
To no end.
That's the puzzling
part of it all.

     Sitting and hoping
     on some,
     while others he bare
     wrestles and bleeds

Is this a coherent
picture of a man?
Is this a man who
prizes a coherent
picture of himself?

This man is my friend
and these words are
all the best I can do.

the Vapors

We'd get so high,
project the foolish
and let the vapors
run us ragged.
Our incantatory 
howling an
extension of
iridescent smoke
Parched and
pining, we'd
sip sublimonade
from circus spouts
and own up to
the awful,
as our tempers 
would allow.

The act of
lovers never
broach is wild
Those days are
of a kind
safer minds 
may never know. 

Wishing when

I spent my life
wishing when,
that spell whistling
at my heart.
A tug,
a tear,
and all the frosty drag it holds.

That bitter cold
a balm that numbs,
and reflecting
that a feeling
is more than
some quiet alone.

I accept that
ever after is
these things ourselves
tell us
that then shed
rhythmically asunder.

Each beat is a probe.
Our heart,
it's faithful prole.

And tomorrow,
as well as
all to follow,
will the frigid
beg for friction
and I beg alike?

Lazy Sunday

We would cuddle often
together in mutual admiration,
each inspired by the other.
Plastered off our desire
and nuzzling comfort to
avoid the day.

Well, what of places to go
and things to see?

We break once or twice
but a cold vacuum stills
the air and harms the void.
No, no, no..we won't leave
this; there's none other.
What a picture of the future,
this present, an idea
I'd put into song.

I hope that we might sing
this song together,
and let it echo through 
the chambers of our hearts.

Hearty hammer

Stripped bare before life's gentle cadence,
sucked dry and laid limp in deference to silent rigor
lives a shell of a man;
a hearty hammer brought to heel.
Once pronouncing distant dreams,
folly's seeker floats unencumbered swiftly
to a sleep.
The proving ground of plenty
and giving ground to those who purchase pardon.
These battles having spent themselves
upon the concourse of the day,
a man may rest
delightful in his stunning vulnerability.

The funny dread

The beast, it takes its fill.
Mother frowns and shakes her till.


there the mites are a'mourning.
Trembling few,
ensconced in warning.

The funny dread of complicit rage
be the muted distress 
of every age.

And we,
you and me all the while
bear benefit and burden
with lacquered smile.

As for those who fight
we may wonder on their lives:
if their struggle be a light?
Or but a flippant lie?

Terror of the tawdry

I wrote this poem after reading this excellent post.  I’m often mortified by the casual disrespect that men engage in vis-a-vis women, and to my mind, every man is responsible for ending such actions.  That anyone would be forced to “erect defenses” for merely living their lives is an absurd notion.  Let’s relieve a little human suffering by engaging those of the opposite sex with the same respect we ask for ourselves.  If we create a vibrant enough echo perhaps the madness will stop.

The petty
and their predations
therefore, they will.
It's that 
subtle shift
of power
to force a 
nervous target still.
What right
have they
that press
to pronounce an
ill intention?
Drown them all
in a vibrant echo,
and through 
the flood 
erect defenses.

Death Rattle

Among the evolving
there's a devolution.
There is a siren
wailing the savage
song of loss.
A wave of tension,
that as it strikes 
the shore of progress,
emits its high, holy
death rattle.

And oppositional forces,
motivated but unaware
that malignant aspirations
reside in futility,
suffer the universal 
tendency toward disorder
as it stands firmly
in opposition of their oppression.

In these final stages,
when the thrash and temper
of humankind reveals itself
in part so ugly, so cold.
Then does the tightening
grip of mortis set in
begging for the decisive blow.

The succor they seek,
the fruit and fallout
of their belligerent designs,
can know no forever,
no perpetual peace.

And like all death throes
before them,
cling as they might,
they will leave behind naught
but the high, holy
death rattle. 

Martyrs of the faith

I suppose I should have added a note to this piece since it is ripe for misinterpretation.  It is not, dear friends, a lamentation of the effects of life/society upon the religious.  Rather, it is a lamentation of the effects of religion on all the rest.  Here, “faith,” is a reference to those who continue to strive for the greater good, not because it is a decree from on high, but because it is the worthy aim of their lives.  Religion has so permeated the highest levels of power in the United States and abroad that I would find it difficult to write a lament over its having lost anything (other than sight of its stated aim).

All that said, let me assure anyone reading this that people of all faiths, political persuasions and identities are welcome (encouraged actually) to read and discuss my writing.  I look forward to spirited commentary everyday and would be hypocritical if I didn’t explore various viewpoints.

One sad and slow
for the martyrs of
the faith,
us all.

A retread
of the trodden,
where wisdom
whistles its
low longing.

And the good
are forced
into order
with a march
all their deeds.

They step too.
They step over.
They step on.

The martyrs of
the faith
are we.