I have not seen
cities set in stone.
Lately they have become
such fragile things
that I wonder if alone
is the way I am
supposed to be.

I have not seen
faces set like masks,
but stretched to laugh,
to sigh or gasp,
in stark contrast.
I have watched them collapse
as the axe
cuts them
from a light grin
to light receding
as pain’s wet reckoning
of regret falls on flesh.

These bodies are not
made of broken rocks,
but of wrinkled skin
made for changing,
exchanging time for
less and more.

The road is infinite,
rolling while I walk on it,
surrounded by
sparkling skies
and lightning flares
flowing in jagged lines
from one star to the next
as their gaseous fury dies.

Small ponds reflect
family happiness
with sweet interludes
of quiet evenings
and adult conversations.

The gravel breaks
disintegrating behind me
in my movement’s wake.

My eyes glaze
as school days
are razed
by all that adolescent angst.

It’s not a cage,
but a strange stage
the pushes me forward
and away as I escape the past.
It moves so fast
that I never get the chance
to relax and look back.

My brother is born.
My brother grows up.
Our highways diverge
but frequently
his road re-intertwines
with mine.

Time cracks eternity
splitting all reality
as red water drops from
another dying sun.

My nephew is born,
and ages swiftly
growing up before I can
appreciate the man
he becomes.

Still, I move on
unable to go back
on that broken cement track.

Tired, I long to rest,
hoping I did my best,
but knowing
I could have been
so much better than
the man who stares towards
time’s inevitable end.

Till, the road ahead
is like the road behind,
and my body breaks,
as does my mind.
Death’s lips parts this
dark slippery chasm.

I long to laugh,
ache for the chance
to go back,
but the highway is a
hungry beast,
and there will be
none of that for me.

Better angels than me,
left their marks
on the hearts
of our society,

but the demons and beasts
left their broken teeth
embedded in my dense skin.

Fairies and ghost
played fairytale hosts
to hopeful fantasies,

but werewolves and vampires
left pierced flesh
slashed and bleeding,
feeding what they were needing
to keep existing
in a world without
magic or doubt.

There is no Superman waiting
to swoop in a save me,
but real villains are out there
stealing my feelings of hope,
killing the ways that I cope,
cause I can’t go deep
enough in sleep
to keep real monsters from
haunting me in my final
reckoning.

Plastic faces
line these places
pale figures
with thin skin
masks hiding
everything.

Lace this life
with a little
strychnine,

draw the line
snort it
just to kick
it up
a notch.

Blow out
all the doubt
let it go,
let your
whole body
stop
drop
and flop.

**** the minute
****** time
till you find

truth is a lie.

No joy last
forever,
not even
the clever
get out of this
*****
alive.

you can deny it
but do I need to rip
my bleeding heart
from my chest
to show you the scars
that are carved in your
handwriting

The rivers
only run
backwards
in our dreams,
fantasies,
and memories.

We can
only go back there
when we think
and remember,
no sparks
or embers
can relight
December’s
fire that has died.

A corpse is just
potential dust
but in the end
we all go that way.

The road may bend,
curve out and in
but the traffic
won’t let us
drive back
to the exact
same place and time again.

When you read this
if you do,
once or twice
or more times
if you like,
I will not be
the same me
I am while I am
writing,
and tomorrow
you will be
different to.

Praise be to the sacred song
of her sweet sexuality.

Soft skin, paled underneath
the smiling moon grinning Cheshire,
eyes close in silent prayer
to a deity who is not there.

If she only knew that she was,
the goddess of desire,
long blond curls falling down past
her supple shoulders,

cool water washing naked skin,
and from her mind’s distance
she imagines him
the one she loves
adoring her as she adores
the sparkling expanse.
How two lover’s hands
intertwine as passion’s twin finds
peace behind the trails and pines.

Long neck, blushing cheeks,
and in my dreams she is the one I seek,
wonderful witchy woman of words
nature’s breathing poetess.

She rises from the cool blue pool,
hands to her breast as the moistness
slides from her hair down her sides
around and under her thighs,
dripping on the evening’s green
as she greets the night and starts to dry.

Then returns to my dreams,
safely sequestered in passing fancies
of magical women I will write about
but never meet or even see in reality.

I am walking back blistered foot
falling off the track we both laid,
those railroad rods on
which pennies were sat
so, they could become pancake
shaped metal bits,
as thin as the skin
of the flat earth minds
that I am trying to break through to.

I am ready for the storm.

Though yesterday
still holds sweet sway,
like the flat-bottomed clouds
that pulled away
the deep blue day,

those soft fluffy
cumulous have gone gray,
with wisping whirlwinds
sweeping up dust.

Dark shadow’s overcast
preparing for water’s
vicious blasting bath
as severe thunderstorms
turn a turquoise day
into an early night.

she plays the music loud
when no one is around
she dances like there's no tomorrow
and never a yesterday
she basks in the palpable sound
of her rapid (rabid) heartbeat
bare feet pounding
into unhallowed ground