This is our violence
Shatter brackets ripping through
Cleanly pressed materialism
A bomb drops
And two children cry
One for mother sky
Two for dust around
Tie a rock to the bottom of our soul
While tulips begin to grow
Above rusting piles
Of violent ricochet
Splinters of what should have done
But left walking alone
Through feral fields
An effort spent
Into misuse and abandon
Which we voted for
And raised flags proudly.
You’re an opal in the sky
Just what’s been on my mind
Pale horse in dust’s eye
That I would dearly hold
To hear sweet blasting trumpets
– Shake it down, dance it around –
Burn over you, through
Morning after morning of
Giant sky high above
So I can finally see,
Take by a silver dream,
Baby, let it arrive.
– Shake it down, dance it around –
So wonderful as you remain
Dragon to my heart,
Roaring like a freight train
Fire to my dark
Till the moon holds both of us
Singing midnight songs
– Shake it down, dance it around –
To me, open up your heart
Be rain rumbling down
Sprouting our love all around
And rainbow sets us free
Baby, let it arrive.
I believed just so strongly that you would be the one
So much so that I chairiscuro’d my heart into day and night,
Night and day.
So longing with my open arms I stood uninterested,
Drooping at edges of my sanity
That left holes so deeply imprinted into my unknown matter
I had successfully reprinted what I’d callously called
“Out of Stock.”
Now? Now I would like to re-brand my interests,
Remove all the old artifacts that so delicately had collected
Dusty particles of my memory,
And remind myself how little it mattered in the end –
Dust being all that could sprinkle our dearest dreams –
As raindrops came tumbling down upon a rainbow I’d ignited.
So my desert teardrops exclaimed to my heartbeat, strong,
Oh this desperado desolato,
In an anguish that I could not anticipate…
Because spring had not yet sprung.
The rust
It is not you
No, sweet darling
It is me
Corroded and
Exposed
Living inside
Ocre pain
That breathes
With kind tolerance
And knowing
That someday
Into dust
This sleepiness continues
To pull upon my fire warmed socks,
Rolling up through my elbows
And following the little trails
Weaving their way up and around
A newly dusted forest floor,
Into my dreams.
How can hallmark decay such strength
That whips about this storm?
A glass amongst dewy grass
Strays memories into this ‘bow.
I have called out to where I’m deeply lost,
I have called to whom I’m sold,
I have called upon a Prince
That left me floating in a sea,
Upon a piece of pixie dust
That was soaked into a cube.
Laying ‘mongst the willows in
A lost state of reverence,
A charmer came and held my snake
And fed me necromance.
As Sun chooses a new neighbor
A turkey vulture closes its eyes
And lets a cold shadow fall upon
Over a dusty ledge of an outcrop,
Shaking sporadically to warn gangsters
Of the lonely outback;
Let their eyes attend elsewhere.
This is a restless moment
Which comes nightly,
A fact us villains can never forget.
To be in a field of yellows here,
Set aside and lightly dusted.
Times we open hearts,
And times we take our shelter,
There are times we can wish for more,
Green it grows it grows it grows.
A dusty footstep leaves a story here,
Wild weeds share ancient scent
That blows and blows and blows
And blows about our ever field.
My safety net has developed holes,
It’s begun to sink with rising tides
That are bringing plastics and driftwood
Into the already discombobulated foray
Of pinks, greens, oranges, and dust.
My dental-floss fixes promote algae
In places I don’t want algae.
Is this growth?
Have I become burdened with my own safety
To the point I’m now over my neck
And flailing for life?
Is this harmonious with progress,
Or is this the definition of distraction?
I recognize I’m becoming dizzy.
I cannot shake cobwebs of memories woven
Like the nest of an eight legged creature
Singing along to its tiny violin.
For whether I am last or first becomes
A brown bottle of almost never cared,
Sitting lifelessly on a stained cedar windowsill
Collecting dust and losing its eyes to tears,
Losing its words to years.
Somehow daughters never returned,
Sisters forgot the street number
Even though the sign sat twisted like a unicorn
Whose mane flowed so thickly in powerful gusts of wind
A rooster turned right around watching.
One cobweb strand reminds me of twin fawns
Who would wander by searching for blackberries,
Rich and prime and staining my fingers
Like thick lines trailing after a slug
Crossing a cement pathway.
I’ve grown used to the cobwebs,
Adjusted to being wrapped so delicately
Subtle changes in atmosphere
Cause reverberating sensations to flicker around
Along a one way street on the holy train.
It’s reached a point where I no longer feel
The sweet perspiration of an ice cold Coke bottle;
Instead, the roar of a monotonous dial-tone
Eager to tell me it’s all right,
And I’ve been here before.