every lie is a *****, rusting, digging into more of what lives in my chest. if you can imagine how a spider's walk sounds, then you'll hear my brown bones closing over this thing that is red. my body is a crowd of one, a room full of me: i stay caged between 4 walls, and it is lonely.

be still so the hounds don't bring you down, not so still that they win without a fight. be still, red thing, but not so still that you may never move again. the world has an appetite for your kind of soul: their mouths, yours too, will be used against you; they'll swallow your tongue and say it was their food.

confined to this live-wire city, you wonder if you chose to be unseen. you wonder when you stopped seeing, too, stopped being a girl with a mouth full of teeth and a red rose that bloomed when she would sing, dance, dream, a girl with less to care for and more to care about, a girl who knew a thing before she was told how she ought to know it.

so what do i know? i sit in this car, i go up this road following signs that read 'home', watching traffic lights come and then go, greening it all the way to the highest hilltop. but mountains tower in the backdrop, the way down becomes an endless ***** and these burning lamps line the sides in warning, urging me to keep to the road.

there is wind in my hair, stars in the radio, and the man in the passenger seat is someone i won't know. he has brown eyes, warm skin, a Cheshire cat grin, and he is everything i hoped he would be, it's unreal. he's here in this scene, in the credits to a movie that plays on repeat, with me on this road to a home that never shows.

and everything bows to the clock anyway so i take charge of the man, the car and the stars, i take charge of the hounds and the spider in my mouth, i take charge of the heart and the bones and the dark, and i let the clock pull me out, out, out and into the arms of something new.

your heart unmasks
to a dagger, already deep into my atriums,
until my muse is replaced
with the bleeding, and each stanza
is your shadow

in shackles. a poem is just a poem
until you perceive it
out of paper—in the silence,
scratching against your skull—until

it begins to burn, your body
bright-blue beneath, your secrets
streaming out like incense—until
it is a grave, with you
more alive in it.

a poem is just a poem until it bites,
until it howls, until it makes
our memory its metaphor
for midnight.

december is the dust dripping from the body
of a closed book, dry and dreamy
like an opening—like the dent
on your doughnut dimple, our lips,
loose from loving, luminous
from our icy irices
igniting;

it is what spills after the storm—
a sweet slice of sky, its silhouette
soft and soothing
like silence.

now, the moon is mounted as a mistletoe
on the tender twig of midnight, now,
our dreams, draped in december dew,
are cold kisses of eternity.

see as december drags the dead
back to breath—our bodies,
bruiseless and born

out of the broken,
wiping afresh in the white,
wet wool of winter.

The noise of the cavalry was muffled by the rhythm of the crows
Cawing, they bellowed their demands, until silence
Betray the gathered armies, and the men began towing
The foreign rocks, heavy they were, scrapping the last of the lavender
From the earth. Those in protest formed a crust
That lined the crown of the castle walls, there will be no violence

Today, nor tomorrow or the next for the wives have had enough of violence
And the birdsongs have never sounded so bitter, these crows
That perch in the woven branches of the castle woods eat nothing but the crust
From shattered honeypots. Often they screech out in pain, but it is all silence
Lately for they have been soothed by the refugees of lavender
That squat in their nests. But it won’t last, for the men have started towing

Again; great metal ladders in hopes to infect their havens, men towing
Their aggression like a mere pebble in their pockets. They are cemented in violence
Like the calf to the ******, and the wife who lathers the scent of lavender
Into her hair. But not all things are so natural and sweet. The crows
Have had their heritage destroyed, they no longer follow the universe, silence
Has become permanence, just like how their rookeries have formed the crust

Upon their enemy’s world. So damp and hollow their homes have become like a crust
Of saliva upon the bathroom sink, alas there is no time to repair, for the men are towing
Again; rocks, ladders and now fallen oaks - dragging earth up as they trudge. There is silence
Before the breach, a moment of purgatory before the deafening violence
Ensues. There are no caws from the guarded rookeries, the crows
Have decided to sleep through revolution, huddled among their lavender

That will soon be found in the knotted hair of widows, the stench of lavender
Shall waft through the winds of grief, as the priest gives counsel to the fresh crust
Of tears found under the eyes of thousands. It is over now and the crows
Have come to pay their respects, they caw at the men who are towing
The tombstones of lives that never blossomed, each one reads: “there will be no more violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next.”. And life shall proceed only with silence.

For awhile it may all persist, silence
Is king and the woods that hug the castle walls are growing lavender
Again. The treaty is kept and the cloak of violence
Is hung up neatly next to the crown, waiting for the crust
Of peace to be vanquished. It is the wives now who spend their days towing
The labour of the land; weaving seeds and chatting to the crows.

Alas, it does not take long for violence to mature, and for the silence
To pitter off. The crows have buried themselves, taking all the lavender
With them. The men are towing again and all that is left is a broken crust.

Sometimes I spend the night in a different room
Not because I feel alone
But because I don't want to be consumed
By the same emptiness of the night
My mind must not wander in it
Or I will surrender to it
Others have done it before
I will make sure not to walk through that door
Madness will call me
No choice but to go with it
So I leave my room
So it won't find me in it

-J.R

~
Sleep, sweet darling
Sleep

Remember drowsy
blue waters
heal and swoon
the ennui haze

In softly pillowed oblivion
where even your
little toes and feet
touch bottom

Beloved dreamer
in tempera obscurity
there will be no memory
of the procession
ferrying our kipped-down family

They will dance
widdershins around us
with fluttered eyelids
and reclining hearts

But whether an
allegory of the cave or
an analogy of the sun toward
some dividing line between
~either way~

Sleep, sweet darling
Sleep
~

nothing comes to mind
rhymes i cannot find
the small 'i' says it all

i am shrinking, full of fears
this year has dwarfed me,
i shed some tears.

The ivy growing up the garden wall
is doing well, it's seven feet tall,
it must be something in the soil,
which reminds me,
one day they'll plant me
perhaps i'll grow tall too.

5 AM every things all white
Every steps crisp
Wipe away the sleepy bugs
Eyes watery ......
Feels good .....
In transitioning night ending black and white
Sliding into grey
.......
Makin good time traveling
557,000 mph
Hurling through space
Truckin along the same direction this giant stones spinning as it rolls like a giant beautiful wobly
Bluegreen mable around the great inferno .
The mysterious fire .......
One.   Of.    The
Three.    
Trichotomy
In this case
Water air and light
Giver of and sometimes taker of life
Emotions mangled
Bereft of purpose and pride .......
Jezebel ........
Triangles .....  
From Dean Martin
Ta mr bo jangles.
Looked me in the eyes slid the knife in me slowly .....
Smiled
Pulled it out.
Leaking out hope
Filled me with doubt .
Mehhhh!
Boohoo i married an Infidel......
Now im on walk about finding
Me
Serendipity!?!
I trek alone
icy
the frozen landscape  
Glistening
emerging from the gloaming
Into the glow
Directly towards the center of gravity
@ 9941°

Darkness blankets frosted ground
Staring upward into
day break color begins
To Bloom
shades and hues
Attach themselves to what they belong to
The sun chases away the moon
Coffees too strong
Burping up bacon
Off the trail
Staring at a mushroom
............
Ruminating in this simplistic still quiet emptiness ..... The faint .......
Almost inpercievable
Feeling of happiness ....
The hot blood courses into the tiny capilaries of my face
Throbbing
Every beat pounding ..  .pushing it through .........
I think im smiling ........
Or mayby grimacing.....
I picked up a large stone covered in sand now i tryin to swallow it but it wont go down ........
Metaphorically .speaking
And there it is ....
The first of many
The lonely maverick tear
Brave salty and crystal clear
Compassionately
Leaves my eye
Feeling as if he was born for this .........embarks
Parting is such sweet sorrow
Softly caresses my flushed cheek...........
And with great theatrical exiting
Quickly runs towards my chin
To dive off into the great unknown
Gets caught
In the corner of my mouth only
To get swallowed ....
Not to worry ...little buddy
Theres always
Tomorrow
in the distance
Laughter and saturday morn cartoons.
Before me
Past and future confluence
Narrow my field of opportunity and i can see clearly .......
Another cold day looms..............
.........
Im excited for
What ever it may bring!!!!!!

.