Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.

Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.

Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.

Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,  
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.

Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.

Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.

Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.

©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner

Every town is haunted
Every city
Every home
There is a ghost caught in every breath

In my house there is the ghost of a woman
Who used to cook in the fireplace after the electricity died
And the social security stopped

She fell in love with the ghost of a cloud
Who is waiting for the breeze to stop long enough
To finally enjoy the heat of the sun
As it pierces rays through it
To the ghosts still here on earth

If we did not turn to dust
We would be walking on layers of bone
We would swim in oceans of ivory
Rolling in the breeze
Sounding like hollow clatter

Gives me chills like disembodied teeth chatter
Oh no
That’s just me
Fitting into my shiver

In my mind there is the ghost of a boy
Who has the ghosts of his teeth
Buried under silver caps
He did not know what bling is
He just didn’t want his smile to feel missing

He did not know what it means to be ugly
And I wear the ghost of his smile

There are ghosts in the souls of our feet
That bind our shadows to our heels
To remind us that we are still alive

All things die
And die again
There are ghosts of ghosts
Finding their place
The way my breath makes peace with the wind

There is the ghost of peace
Practiced in the shaking of hands
Practiced in the lip quiver of a sigh
Fighting back tears of a victory

And there will one day be the ghost of myself
Haunting the house that I died in
Practiced in the patience
Learned from forever

Keeping please and thank you
within the answers held far
from talking eyes.
Is a burst of air splashing casually
from the pages of a book,
waltzing into sighs.

I just saw indignation
standing out in a thin smile again.
Emotionless laughter is at my door
with another sign, still and pausing
when night has entered
silently my friend.

On one side little boxes full of hope
grow bigger as they sit.
Yet, misting gently in the distance
comes the morning
instinctively they grow smaller
then they quit.  

I do not know where I should be walking
or if I should mention what I see.
When uncertainty brings a little chill
hardens this soft heart
I carry
here inside of me.

You may hear stones from the ground
drinking the truth from my hands.
But not, if you still have
an axe to grind
stupidities pipe to smoke
at your command.

Listen to the cries of no, no, no
breathing inside all human souls.
Close your eyes and pretend
you are in Disneyland
burning every letter I sent you
but never wrote.

Your breath will come in a whispered kiss,
running through your head.  
The poison from your mouth
will empty out into all the goodbyes
you meant, but never
quite said.

I dream of snow - dreaming of whispers -
colliding and beading on the glass;
and the dissipation of dew
from the weeds that grew
in the cracks of my window.

You look lost, a stitched-woman, voiding the wind in your hair.  
Like face-free-eyes lighting a temple in their reflection
you glare knotted in fall-spokes dreaming of winter.
-Tea is steaming from your glass -
God has turned left-hand memories into ports beneath skin
filling in the dreams of your frozen hair, like veins.  
A gold-oil spills from your lips as you breathe  
in my mouth - Your glass still steaming -

When you come back: Will lay me in your reflection and listen
for the sound of my hair in your hands?

I stare
     transfixed
at the table.
I could care
     less
about the weather
and current events

My eyes
    follow
the lines that
     swirl
and they connect
     together

The waves
    curl around
in gentle meanders
that
     invite
me to play
amidst the grain.

Nothing else
     exists,
the world
     melts
          away.

I lay in the sand
face down
to breath in the grit
and grind it into my eyes.
I've spent so much time
staring at the sun
and the breaks,
holding onto the hope
that I'll see someones face.
I can't take it anymore.
I just want the beach
to swallow my head,
to steal my senses
and leave my body numb
and at peace.
I'm so tired of waiting
to get out
of this ******* place.