Serpent on the Mound

To be hopelessly lost in laughter
At last soul's capture factor
My brethren to behold the repentance
To commence hence forth for duty
In front of a jury in a hurry to fix
A noose in which to swing the change of wind
And choke out the fog for thrills

To be helplessly laughing at death
See, at best we've met our maker
His beard like my brother's arrogance
On a cloud aloud in a sky of screams
It seems things deem rather quick
A slit lets out a box of ills spilled upon the strange
And watch a dog choke on his pills

The decent man put his hands together
Talked about the sky
Talked about the weather
And whether or not to live or rot
Questioning meaning, seeing, and feeling

That's when he felt the rain

Said the man with questioning hands:
Is he with hooks better than we?

his story repeats

Hum the streets
Glow the sun
Heed the call
Start to run
For the sound
They will come
Oh dear god
How does it
Get so loud?


How does one
Get so numb
To get here
To get gone
To be lost
Praise it on
Somber fists
Quarrelist
Soberless
Recognize this
Drunken linguist

Slow the stay
Avoid the way
Bound by prose
And so it woes.

(for there are still lights to be brought out)

With the passing of each step
The crickets halt
Never knowing what's in store
Never knowing I swore for more
But poor wars start tours of lore
And terror

Of time
(and it's error)

For we are here again at this familiar junction to be

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat
Steps one through three
Thus, there must be triadic harmony
Within the changing of leaves
I have yet to see

So await upon me to convert doubt
Alas, there are some words that must be sought out

(while there is still a tongue within my side-ways mouth)

wordlessworld

I borrowed this body from a Folgers can
Full of cigarette-butts, showing a dis-colored man
Wandering in a caffeinated confusion
Listening to the way blood boils in Tucson
He, like I, got used to it
But I never wanted this or that or those
For I am not the writer of this story
And perhaps that's why it's so boring
With the clicks of their finger-tips
I hear the death of conversation
With the chapped lips of of a realist
I sing out the lament of a nation

We ain't what we used to not be.

For a while
For the time being
So damned slow
Molasses minutes
And hours that aren't our's
Shaking hands with seconds
On a poker-face-clock

So be it
Until then
When now
Somehow spent
Allowance on admittance
With nothing to show for it

Clogged cogs
Cracked gears
There is no such thing
As perpetual motion

Hiss

He awoke under feet of loam
No longer tired
Older than before
All of God's truth lived in the trees
Because there's someone cursing about him
But still no sign of wind
A fathomless gray
A flowerless grave
A finding of solace by the road unpaved

Hearse

She awoke with a lump in her throat
Uninspired
Colder than before
All of God's bitterness came in with the breeze
Because there's something crossing in those winds
But still no sign of him
A windowless pane
A widow in pain
A winding feeling going down the drain

self-poor-trait

What happens when a cog in the machine of being
Breaks
Spilling out children words
Onto the factory floor
And immigrants with real hands
Can't piece a greased alarm clock
Together any better
Than a fat kid
Having a mid-life-crisis
At fourteen

the sun was upset that day
filled with a fiery and illuminating rage
lifting vapor from the asphalt
modeling mirages for burning brothers

and laughing
all the while

i hear every building sweat
dripping beads off brick
and i wonder how long i've been deaf

Fireworks.
Sodoeswater.

On a train. Somwhere in Southern California. Years ago.

In my head I will scale many mountains
And in her bed she'll meet me in the valley
With closed eyes, she will fall asleep without him
And we'll be dancing far from the sea

If I cared, you ask, how could I harm her
Reasons lie beneath ridges in dead teeth
I say, my dear, you ain't no charmer
maybe to snakes, but not to me

You think you know where my heart resides
Where my spoons go to sleep at night
Do you know where the dreams of my dreams go
or do your dreams roam along like the buffalo?

I read the words before they were written
I blushed brightly before I was smitten
And all that I've known
Is a stone's throw from wishing
That a galaxy grows
Within the black holes
In the teeth
Of the weak

Insomnia.

If I had a soul, it would be crushed
but there isn't much left
inside of this chest

A wreck of a mess

The information settles
as I scribble out each potential line

Since lately it's hard to find
any words that work

The pictures go in and out
Like recalling a bad dream

And it seems that all hope lives
in puddles of piss
and shit passes through the pipes

Of every city