047: Homecoming

Between cotton walls of grey

caravans trail and trod along

a flat earth nailed to paper skies,

marked with kurgans of giants,

mantled by glitters of cold,

decelerating just a bit

to usher in an age of questions.

Within sublime frequencies,

the movement never ceases

and shaking teeth keep grinding

with consummate dendrites

for the invisible door,

sat one step beyond

the mating point of sea and sun.

Striving to net parhelions,

our roots are touching rock,

with every dawn and every war,

yet we'll hold fast, like blades of grass,

each crashing wave,

each footprint laid

in swiftest sands the wind won't name.

046: Torn

Extract the truth,

like a tooth

- a fire lash

outstretching

the horizon -

and drive the sword,

though the sea boils

with icebergs

charred.

The house I built

with sprinkles

of heaven

and pockets of forever,

between subway stations,

insane with wine,

drunk with madness,

loosens

at the seams.

My harbor

from atom storms,

forgive me,

as my days

are links

of bronze chains;

swimming

in the quicksand,

these astral rooms

have everything but doors.

A blessed life,

my heart's tempest,

the dream tempted

to compress infinity

in single

seconds

and no beacon

in the distance.

Slaving in freedom,

burning in thirst,

a vice of the soul -

I still shun this cup;

I know not;

I deny;

unkempt, unquenched,

mirror nemesis.

045: Living inside me

Standing on the pier

that pierces the seam

of a sea of stone,

sacrally alone,

starflesh dives the rim.

Breathing caves of fear,

housed in crumbling lungs;

if I dare pry,

hear the crystal cry,

bells of waking rung.

Trickling dusk draws near

and heralds the dark night,

lightning in the soul,

imprint in the coal,

the end in living light.

Stabbing steps do sear,

disease march 'cross the ice,

every breath, a knife,

still, the kiss of life,

building paradise.

044: Words for weak flesh

Awakened

by somatic whispers,

cavern lung

caving in,

coiled by the black,

every breath,

a shovel racking

moist mud.

Strings of seconds,

shapeless, nameless,

rendering language useless,

always present

at the hours' cross,

sickness is,

silence exists,

clawing at the sun,

creeping through the seams.

Full speed ahead,

into the ice,

oceans of onyx

prepare the trail;

today,

tomorrow,

yesterday,

a memory

blown away

by a sour mistral.

This is a war

of still frames,

never fatal,

always wounded,

gleefully sullen

beneath a nova sky.

Ballast emote,

blast of emotion,

say the word

that's yet to be,

wriggling through the red

into the blinding

filament,

incandescent,

carrying on,

drown,

explore,

indulge / resist.

043: For a second, the world stopped.

There was agitation below,

splatter of leaves in stuttered colors

as the pendulum swung,

from nadir to zenith.

Rushed by vectors of joy,

a snapshot cyclone caved the bridge

only to raise it anew,

astray, yet cognizant.

Lifted the lid, in ache,

to the obsidian blade, wrought red,

smitten by the sun

before a perfect dawn.

And the child laughed,

his pearl mouth, straight from a scripture,

while darkness, amoebic, snug in,

like a pet, in his warm absence.

Within the morning gleam,

blood seeped through his feather crown,

along the scaly coils,

for dust to coalesce.

It took seasons in seconds

to remember the myth I never forgot;

and throughout the confines,

sleepless chains shook.

You whispered it gently,

in dual incarnations, guiding light azure,

thus, infernal and tender,

I will rest in awe.

042: Healing dance

Information amok besieging the gates of reason,

a stop sign is ignored in spiteful fashion,

ask questions but sometimes the answer is blank,

drifting on the river, fishing fragments of passion.

At the end of the hallway there's an unlocked door,

winding steps fly into equilibrium,

tectonics intact from petrified pumping,

still seeking the flame, burn cryptosporidium.

In a late hour, bleeding, reality serrate,

from the ramparts I still see myself, not lost,

with a silver bullet gun to banish demons from the mirror,

from sweetest lips, never ignore what matters most.

041: No name

Black pearls washed ashore,

runes carved in driftwood

from an island without trees,

pins on a map, epicenter

of a mythical nowhere,

solar tears whence the sky

drinks the sea dry.

Words about words,

tempt to paint a lash

in Mayan blue, no rhyme,

a wake so dark, a fall so deep,

awake or dreaming

lost in fog, a reality,

in questions of time spent.

Spitting out cupfulls of bile,

black lung haunted by fear,

look into the rising sun,

beyond shivering green,

a wordless answer lurks

where white whales spurt

and the moon drowns.