Growth

  
Blackberries plucked from pricker-bush twigs
wound into frantic skeins
branded my palms a summer’s purple.

Scrubbed bald with steel sponges,
my hands rinsed print-less and raw
more suitable for important carpets that walked plush
under the toes of beast-flesh couches
that waited on me, my child stain.

I was born with my crouch rooted in growth,
the thick of dirt and leaves,
that edged the driveway; it boiled black,
rapid as a current.

A pulse thumps rhythms

marking time

the beginning

now

and goodbye

The chord progression rises

bellows

hums and mutes whether strings or tuner

Resonance, evidence of existence

The wave arches

slides

and crashes–a circle

it blinks, but knows no end

Creation, death, reincarnation

Blame the doer

It’s been done

With victims, we need a culprit

Pull the trigger

The fruit has been devoured

There are no more answers

We won’t know the end we’ve built

for our children

Pass out, rest easy

It will all be over soon

You started with the unknown

You ended with not knowing

I forgot to ask about the middle. You never showed without question.

You never had a tell.

Don’t fool yourself with the newness. It’s all the same with different timing.

Diving is for the wicked

I hated you for not taking chances
I drowned taking them for you

What am I?

Would you like it if I hired your blank decisions?
Would you sleep if I strangled you needs?

Break me – I’m restless

Hear me now – I’m no where near knowing who I am

Conviction – I wish I knew how to own you. I always forget.

Forgiveness only reminds us of what went wrong

Simple. Keep it simple, smooth, unambitious.

Keep the years short, hair long, thoughts blank, wistful.

Carry your neck straight, small bites, small breaths, big needs.

Know your yearning. Shut it up.  

Dreaming up your punishment.
Dreaming is your punishment.
Dreaming for a final punishment.

Keep dreaming.

Glamour huffing hairspray and gasoline. Simple. Keep it simple.

Bloated wants, victories, nose-ride moonbeams

Hallucination tox screens. Guilty with no one  watching.

Alone with rage.
A lonely rage.
A longing for rage.

Signing a contract before its been written. Muffed ears.

You know your own ambition.

Some people pine – you know you know you’re right

I’m wistful meets captivated, a contradiction unrequited

This isn’t heads or tails – we never placed the bet

Victims

We set them up.
The four glass birds perched on splintered ledge
to wait for our swooping palms that clenched
to lift and drain the life in them;
so we drank

all they had to offer, slipping
worms down our throats
and we burned, yet still water-eyed
were wistful for the next two,
noxious eyeless and bald.

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The moon sunk heavy, a man’s eye bulging

a stranger’s baggage – where did you sleep last night?

Egg-eyed white and pulp heavy

carrying itself like it wanted to be left

behind, dragging itself

stars left to dot a path

in a skid marked sky

blacks and blues galloping a punch

into night.

I’ll describe to you an aching sky.

Rage pops! It boils–filling your glass to a spilling brim over lavishing in itself devouring its surroundings and swallowing all pieces of life in a trembling gulp–the ground shakes with screams of doom trussed gravity. Grumbles ripple out in aches through scratching scraped fingernails dripping, seething rage, it’s leaving traces behind–the real–the sensed. All sensing know this grand explosive. It asks you on a walk and turns skipping daises, a massacre.