She wears no hair
but multi-colored
plumage
around her *******
and over her
womanhood.
A scaled tail
swings swiftly
back and forth
in the
sparkling infinite
whilst black bat
leathery wings
allow her
to slow the
inevitable
descent
into a
watery darkness.

The air becomes
a thick and
burning liquid
heavy with
ionic energy.

She moves fluidly
in this mercury
piercing
the puddle
with her
fast flicking finger.
Silver ripples
work their way
from within
to without.

A soft figure
falls in
the firmament,
till the ether
tightens around her
forming a bubble.

Oily rainbows
bend and swirl
in sick distortions
that are reflected
upon the slippery surface.

The black water below
cracks and separates
leaving her to face
another cosmic creature,
a hungry hole
vast and black.

A permeable chasm
of nothing
draws her
entire being
down into
the chaos.

Then she bends
with the fierce force
of gravity,
pulled and elongated
stretched, and separated,
screaming in agony
as she is shredded
faster then
the speed of light.

In this entropy
my dear dream
dies
a horrid death,
of meaninglessness.

My dreams are painted clean
Tucked and trimmed by a sewing machine
My mother's face is wrinkle free
And smiling for eternity.

My father's voice is soft and kind
My brother's eyes are sparkling blind
My sister's arm is thick and strong
My family line is clean and long.

My pencil fertile, conscious itself
Collecting brilliance without my help
My headache gone, my nostrils clear
Breathing sea air gushing near.

Inspiration well stocked, character for sale
My clothes well spun like a handmaid's tale
Garden promise behind shut doors
This is what my dreams are for.

Sing to me what you wish and curse,
in a choir or solo verse.
Scribble down A poem or rhyme,
i’ll give it all of my time.
Sculpt and carve me your heart,
with all its many complex parts.
Paint me all that you dream,
the simple or thee extreme.
Draw me things of what you fear,
or what you hold close and dear.
Speak openly about your thoughts,
all that you seek and all you sought.
Suggest it in A metaphor,
so I can envision what you saw.
Act it out in A scripted story,
so I can marvel at what’s before me.
Write it like A biography,
so I may behold your odyssey.
Free hand me how it is you feel,
so I can see something that’s real.
Be yourself come as you were,
that’s the you that I prefer.

The code is
encrypted
in the concrete
that has been
stained
dried crimson.

All that was in them
leaking out and about
dripping deep
dna markers.

The secret harkens
back to
the history
that birthed you.

Each chain
like a strand in
lonely islands
drifting in an ocean
of strange history.

Each particle
plugged in
its proper place
to become
part of your face.
or another attribute
that is uniquely you.

To take away
that code
would unglue
the truth.

It would rescind
the parts that
grow and mend
allowing us
to break
and remake
again
and again.

The spiral
spins in,
around,
and under
your skin.

Atoms
to cells
tissues
to organs.

Though,
such wonders grow
grand and beautiful beings,
It is only of passing fancy.

Tomorrow
it might be
the poetry of
space that makes
my thoughts swim.

I did not ask
for my eyes to burn,
to dry up and scratch
as I look at the back
of my eyelids.

I did not miss this
mystery
that sat before
the collapsing curtains,
as pink light poured
through the skin
to my pupil
causing a micro
cosmic dilation,
like a big bang
in my eyeballs
as my hazel
irises rushed away
from the growing
black blank space.

Then when I tried
to pull the lids up
I could hear
the sound of suction
and feel
the bruising ache
of a lifetime of
untreated eyestrain.

How the day hurt.
I have felt worse
but the confusion
came intruding
when I realized
that the clouds
were purple
and those skies
were not ones
my eyes
had ever beheld
before.

Crimson colored
grass like strands
stood tall and
then bent back,
swaying swiftly,
with a harsh clacking
and in their movement
I heard
mother nature laughing.

It was a bitter chuckle,
laced with pain and rage,
followed by the crackle
of lightning becoming
thunder.
White lines split
this strange reality
like cracks
in a broken glass
mirror.

No animals,
no barking dog,
no flying dove,
not even
a single bug.
I’d happily settle
for some human being
but there was no one.

My mouth was dry
and the air was heavy
forcing me
to work harder
than normal to breath.
It was thick with
an acrid saltiness.

I could not find
the right time,
and reason
seemed to
loosen its grip
upon my fatigued mind.

There was a perfume
of rot riding
the air
like a lost surfer,
caught and cracked
then left after that
to feed the fishes
down below.

If I was Alice
I would understand
that this was
the strange land
through the looking glass.

If I was Dorothy
I would make haste
to get home
off this yellow brick road,

but this is not
a fairy tale
that fosters
brighter futures.

This must be hell
or as close as one can get,
and I would like to forget
all of it.

But I cannot seem to recall
anything at all
before I opened my eyes.

The synapses are singed,
dead dendrites
no longer
come to life
with the chemical fire
of neurotransmitters.

Blood flow is
restricted
like it has been classified
by the FBI,
not even tiny particulates
can get through it,
all that is left
are clogged arteries
and a delicious
cheeseburger death.

The rich interwoven tapestry
that use to be me,
the strange tributaries
of plasma,
the slick switch board
that birthed
consciousness,
full bodied sensations
intertwined
with my complicated mind
making me
the cosmic being
that I am;

has slipped the restraints,
this thing lost its name
and now is labeled
Mr. Nobody,
the disconnected
butchered body
of broken flesh,
the rotting mess.

Call in the Doctor
causes the nurses all left.
Then from some
dark corner
bereft of breath
a shade stealing figure
mister death
comes to collect the debt
of life.

Whether we
once plump
and juicy fruits
wither on the vine
like grapes to raisin
or rise in
comparison
to the splendor
of the morning
horizon,
that lovely light
which beckons
moon burnt hearts
to brighter days?

Whether we let our gaze
consume the days,
feeling warm tidings
of flesh rising
to potential fullness
instead of previous flattened
passions?

Whether we
live or die
matters not
to the celestial bodies
that paint
the infinite night sky.

In fact, somedays
when my mood sways
to darker ways
it matters not one bit
if all the wit
of humanity
just slips
into the dark abyss.

The sun brings
harsh rays
of today's
heated frustration,
hot footed
to the point
of burnt and flaking
skin,

dehydrated
to the point
of pale pallor,
a practically porcelain
face guarded by
the scratchy hay hat.

Dry desert madness
makes your mind
forget itself
as well as
all previous times.

No name,
no camel,
no water
only the illusion
of an oasis
waiting a thousand steps
outside of
each step
you take.

It shimmers
and fades,
moving in time
pressing itself
against the horizon
as you pursue
the fantasy
of what you would do
with all that water.

Drawn on
as the lie
overcomes your
hazy mind,

"Just one more step,

jes one more step,

jes one mer step,

jes one mer...."

till your body forgets
how to take
another step
and your falling,
sleeping as the wind sweeps
sheets of sand
above your body
where no will
ever find you.

He is a stark
shadow stag
that stands
with a regal glare,
wearing red shades
of wet matted hair.

Heart broken
beating ventricle
bleeding
from the pleading eyes
that soften
from the loss of
blood.

Looking back
at the last path
this tall stag
left
finds impermanent
imprints
that led
the hunters
to him.

Like those tracks
the memory of the stag
is only passing,
like this poem
only lasting
for a flickering moment
in space and time.