Resolute

To who then do I owe this pleasure,
or this curse, to love a second
long after the first.  I must say
I have towed the line day after day

with no regard to a past ill spent,
but the past is present—I repent.
Now what then do I seek salvation from?
No god or man has talent enough

to make my deeds undone.
Nor even in a dying breath, a lament
shouted towards the sun,
would do sufficient harm or good

to make my deeds undone.
So I ask once more: why tread this path?
There is no reason for my treason
though to warily await each passing season.

Spring

I am senseless, like the seasons;
like the low hanging branches
snipped to provide nourishment
for the strong to survive.

What do we hope for when love
can be bought and history
stacked behind a barn to be burnt
in a Darwinian pyre?

Eagerly staring in to the white flame
I hope to find some semblance
of myself - but I am lost—food
scattered in the wind for Spring.

Traveling through Time

There are these moments--in life,
flash bulb photographs stored in the mind
like tiny creatures being fed
and groomed inside little purple
crystals. When the high stumbles
upon the precipice one might pop out,
as the mirror reflects the physical,
and the sights and sounds will cease
to exist--for the current time.
One might stray in these instants
of spacial vibration--one
may even stay there.

Some Ink Never Fades

You reached across the expanse
to guide me into the flame.
The sun set on our chastity
long ago; the moon, now cradled by a cloud
filled sky, shines bright on the skeletons
of our past. My skin is dense, but
knowing you are near, I feel the breeze
run it's chilled fingers across my cheeks.
During a past life I exhaled you into the rapture
of these crashing waves—I still remember
the pattern the ink made as it left the
pages of your letters when I drown them.
I meant to warn you: the air here is saturated
with poison. Please take enough good with you
so you can breathe again.  Please don't forget
to look up and admire the sky. Take these
pages and write to me; tell me how beautiful
the moon was and how it made you smile again.

The Death of Flight

A circle is breaking in a hospital bed tonight.
The blinking lights are dearth, and I am writing
in the darkness—the dark is where all words
are born—from this vacuous bench they will fade
like the subtle hum, beep, and breath
of men who have chosen to lose flight.
I need to understand what it means to fight. 
Arms weakly raised to a nurse, he is docile, his voice
speaking from a time his mind can no longer remember.
I must dig deeper.  Why am I here?
I want to come with him. I want to reach behind
to sever these blackened wings from their sheath
and take his place.
Selfish—this is so selfish.
Our ouroboros has swallowed itself and again I have disappeared
while siblings gather to justify the meaning.
He is fighting—don’t they see?
I retreat—a ghost in a room full of ghosts.

Undertow

There is a current in the wishing well;
time moves slower here, slow enough
for dreams to solidify—not as if
to take form, but to remain in place.
Just above the undertow a fresh layer
of powder is forming - barely enough
to cover our crustations from sight,
but just the right amount to hide us
from ourselves.

Acompaniment

I wonder how I will unfold—
that is to say I am not unfolded—
this swiss cheese lifestyle makes
the chest rise and fall a little faster.

The mouse will slap the master,
and take the cheese as a right
of passage.  The slave will lift the anvil
slightly to relieve the tension but

Nothing takes the place of emptiness.
Nothing remembers the way the blinders
look from the other side so it will know
what to say and when to say it.

It's a learning experience for all involved.
The slave tightens the straps and turns
his back, thankful he is able to see
both sides in the spectrum—

Nothing always comes back.

The Therapist asks, "Where were
you just now?" I say, "I don't
know."  I was thinking about
nothing—