Resting

Sharp tongue cuts flesh,
Freeing carmine river,
Possessed hands carry out task,
Furtive wretch exorcises his fluids,
Drowning,
Drowning in his own poison,
Mourners gather in masses and weep,
So sudden,
So full of life he was,
A shock,
A tragedy,
Truly a nightmare,
No,
The nightmare is now over,
He lays down to sleep for the first time.

Intimacy

Spread my thoughts
In red and pink and gray,
Share what's on my mind
In mucus on the page,
Evict this dreadful monster
From my overburdened brain,
A fine box of mahogany
Where this masterpiece is lain.

Slaughter

Gray sky of steel clings to metal-glass towers,
Choking the life from the the huddled, cold masses,
Pressed like livestock into their pens,
Gasping and sweating as they clamor and squeal,
Iron shrieks drown out the cries of the children,
Men of iron march inward, metal glints in the half-light,
A rising tide of excrement chokes those who fall,
Panicked feet trample the weak and the dying,
Desperation a miasma suffusing the air,
The copper taste of blood fills their mouths,
In a second, an instant, they shudder and fall,
Cruel metal on flesh barks out through the night,
Come morning, only the barest fingers of white,
Claw outward from the blackened, blasphemous soil,
A thousand small headstones litter their grave.

Reflection

The page isn't canvas,
Rather a purgatory,
Trapped forever in two dimensions,
Run eternal through mirrored halls.
Mocked by wicker men,
Effigies of illusory humans,
Only given life through second-hand accounts.

The first draft is trash,
But what about the mundane,
Where there is no revision,
Only the ever-present sting of regret,
A fraud,
A bootleg of a falsehood,
An illusion of a mirage,
A copy upon a copy forever.

Is it worse to be unoriginal and ignorant,
Or aware and simply unable to create.

The Brackentrogg

Twas a day or maybe seven that she'd wandered through that place,
Though pernicious dreck and brambles hadn't yet reduced her pace,
While the plague of buzzing insects left their tracks upon her face,
She had hoped that her endeavor would return his warm embrace.

They had lived in Serpents' Gullet for about a half a year,
And had realized rather suddenly the place was awful queer,
For the folks at night were silent and the air was thick with fear,
When each month another family seemed to up and disappear.

Levi never was the type to sit and wait for storms to pass,
So one night he said to Hester he would wait at Bile Pass,
She implored him to be patient and come morning they'd leave fast,
But come morning all she'd found was Levi's boots and bloody grass.

The boughs around her heaved as a miasma blew about,
Winds of sulfur danced with sweat upon a floor of rotten trout,
Her heart clung to her gorge as she suppressed the urge to shout,
In the twilight of her lantern, two black eyes and serpent's snout.

"I'm the head of this estate and king of every leech and frog,
Sovereign ruler over every septic inch and rotten log,
Now I wonder what this lamb is doing groping through my bog,
Will the fly appease the spider?" hissed the savage Brackentrogg.

"Just a trifle, drop your rifle for there's no good it will do,
Tell yourself your bull's still breathing when you know it isn't true,
Had a feast of his fine offal and his fats went in my stew,
And now my dear I fear I plan to do the same to you."

Like a shadow meeting onyx it submerged beneath the pitch,
All about the putrid bog she heard it cackle like a witch,
So she perched within a mangrove til she felt the water twitch,
Clutched her iron like a fetish and assailed the son of a bitch.

With a motion, in a moment, all the fear had come and gone,
Rending teeth and thrashing coils met the steely little fawn,
What the Trogg had thought at first to be a meal he'd come upon,
Was instead a vengeful huntress who had proved the devil wrong.

Creative Spirit

The desire to create,
My hands burn with purpose,
Callouses seals of the well.
The ten digit army marches forward,
Moving in perfect synchronization,
A grand design unfolds.
Realized on paper,
The images on my eyelids,
A half-hearted shadow suffices.

How does one's soul grow,
I wonder at my desk,
As the bottles collect all about.
Where does one find,
That spark which endows them,
With the power to make things divine?
A cage of suburbia,
So fine in its making,
The bounds of which humble my efforts.

Such an ungrateful child,
To resent these provisions,
And spit back the shelter I have.
Cannot be argued,
That complacency breeds,
A spirit bereft of value.
Works amount to little,
For while scaffolding stands,
Little else fills the void in between,

Great Chain

A great long chain stretched out in front,
Had bound us ere we could recall,
In droves we toiled neath the sun,
A pittance doled to everyone.

Into my beaten back a shunt,
Had bucked my knees and made me fall,
I heard a call for justice then,
That we may never toil again.

Along the iron length we trod,
Through scenes of wanton misery,
Ahead the pit boss called the shots,
Twas him who could improve our lots.

From bleeding knuckles grabbed the prod,
Before us bent and quashed was he,
We bargained thus for greater gains,
And failed to see he too had chains.

Molding

So galled looking in the mirror,
This paper thin man,
Worthless trash in the breeze,
His reflection drawing nearer,
Dead eyes speak deadpan,
Stomach drop to my knees.

Inescapable this hell is,
Within this cage of flesh,
Cannot change the way it's made,
Wallowing in the tar pits,
The same ideas made fresh,
It is strange the way it's played.

Repeat repeat repeat again,
Regurgitate the better men.

Collection, Micro Poems

Clenched fist round leash,
Collared wretch in mud,
Meagre creature whines,
The lash is hot and cruel.


Amber flows over glass,
Warm like your skin,
Yet a poor imitation,
Alone in misery.


Gold never seemed so cheap,
Diamonds lacking in lustre,
The opposite of value,
Potential wasted.


Heavy head heavy rests,
A haven of unwanted guests,
A sickness that they call depressed,
Leaves scattered thoughts of death a mess,
And pity pain within the breast.


This is the first line,
This is the second line,
Somewhere there's a rhyme,
It's the same thing every time.

The Grove

In the desert two flowers grew,
Apart yet drawn they were to each other,
With little but heat and sand around,
They found asylum from the scornful earth,
In the shade of one another.

Amid the cacti and cooking stones,
Two flowers thrived and spread their roots,
These two whose odds were yet so slim,
Pressed on unfettered,
Yet anchored still.

The baleful gaze of the sun bore down,
A kiln the sands as others died,
And wilted all about the two,
But safe in one another's boughs,
Their roots grew deep and hardy still.

Today the desert is no more,
A jungle rich and emerald stands,
Where once stood only ivory graves,
Now life springs forth,
And rivers flow.

It's said in whispers passed along,
By caravans and travelers hence,
The verdant heart of the jungle hides,
A grove secluded evermore,
Where two small flowers bloom anew.

Monitor

Small pinprick,

Flash hot lance penetrates leather skin,

Divulges vital fluids,

A fleeting sting upon well-trodden turf,

A bead of liquid forms.

The straw like thirsty traveler,

Drinks deep of carmine liquid,

It lurches up the trunk,

And finds its home in plastic hold.

What value is this letting,

The numbers run and calculate,

The worth of something so dear,

Rarely given value,

Now rigidly defined on a fixed scale.

Too high,

Too low,

It matters little,

This soil must be probed again,

An inexhaustible resource.

For now an exchange takes place,

Blood for blood,

Blood forever.

Wasteland

Glass sentinels stand atop the unflinching plain,
Translucent obelisks stark and cold,
Light of the artificial sun catches in the brown and green,
The stagnant air hangs about,
Cloying and thick.

A foul stench pervades this wasteland,
Crawling about through the weather-worn glass,
Whispering silent underfoot,
Where the rustling of trash,
Can be heard upon the Earth.

Another glass edifice falls into place,
With a delicate sound it joins its brethren,
Dotting the landscape like stones in a graveyard,
Standing stark and cold,
As the light is turned out.

The HMS Kubler-Ross

The wind may beat our backs with cold,

The rain may stain our brow but,

We're just four leagues away from port,

We'll not surrender now.

O' curse you scornful ocean,

And a pox upon this storm,

May the sharks be choked by bodies,

Should we fail to see the morn.

O' Triton carry fleet my words,

I've wife and daughter fair,

We beg your vengeful father that,

This vessel he may spare.

But what good is a mortal's curse,

Against the likes of God,

I s'pose that in His wisdom,

I should drown, a wretched sod.

I've lived my life an honest man,

That plies the seven seas,

And I s'pose I ought be thankful,

For my time and all I've seen.

Pity

Broken mirror in darkened chamber,

Hundred eyes show ugly reflection,

How sad he is,

In his ivory tower.

Crowds part in the streets,

Bows and obeisance given,

Never asked,

How he curses his isolation.

Beggars in the dirt,

Look up with brightened eyes,

Crooked dirty smiles,

Anchored in the earth.

Sad man floats on ghost feet,

Bedecked in gold and furs,

How sad this king must be,

Truly a pity.

Charity

The mire all about,
Choking all that lives,
Leaving all that dies,
To join the muck and grime.

Worthless little lout,
A wallet like a sieve,
Chokes all the friends who try,
To bring back better times.

A plague and cancer manifest,
So wrapped up in their ways,
Cannot forswear their habits,
Must seek out greater hosts.

And so to all the rest,
Just benefactors played,
In service to this money pit,
They share a bitter toast.

Blank Page

Quiet, blank page.
So noisy.
Your jibes and suggestions,
Of my impotence cut deep.

Quiet, blank page.
Your jeering.
You and I alone sit,
With these thoughts I call "deep."

Quiet, damn page.
I am begging.
I cannot endure you much longer,
My patience is starting to wane.

Quiet blank page.
It is lost.
In this moment the slate remains virgin,
I'm alone with my shame.