The Heavens We Fear

We are gods of some universe
Throwing thoughts in the air,
Reviving dead fates and
Giving Lazarus a future.
Such a lovely evolution
Without time and space
To bury the bones of
The all-to-present priests.
Remember well the occupied spaces,
And intruding mothers,
And time well wasted,
Velvet nooses on our necks
To keep the moment desperate.
So let that symphony
of vulnerable regret
Be just out of reach
Of the heavens we fear.

Always The End Of June

So much death must have drove
Him to youth in desperate corners
Of desolate rooms, the ones
We used to laugh at until
They found him there
Building fate for us all.

But oh what fun!
Stretched animal skin
And sanded pine
With ice that choked
The truthful vine,
While loose-skinned neighbors
Tended their lawns
And pitied the sun.

Holy Paper Weights

Tiny little priests
Stacked so neat
With holy paper weights
And windows shut
To quell the morning breeze.

Humidity and iron will,
With dust that settled
Some centuries ago
And painful growth
Is a thing unknown.

Such innocence blesses
And kisses like a mother
Would a thankless child,
Some raise a man to give him up
And other just to hide.

But oh how envious
of those winter loins
A swollen man becomes,
When summer heat exposes all
And cancer takes its toll.

Drowning Takes Breath

I'm not suicidal,
No killing takes strength
And idle men sleep
With sheets over their eyes.
But dreaming takes time
When other men die
And weakness wakes you
With hot sweat and cold gin.
I'm not drinking too much,
No drowning takes breath
And what you can see through
Dead spotted pale flesh,
Is the last of the classical,
Such a predictable stretch.
More salt on the highway,
Less blood to my neck.

The Meaningless Few

Silent men night nursing
Their wounds so open and clean,
Cutting years off progress
With an unspoken blade.
But pity them not
They are young men again!
Young with passion full of fear
And a sea of decisions
To carry their bones forward
And drown their souls here.
At night sailors speak
To Mozart's remains, so empty
And quiet in the curve of the blue,
But his first was well worth
The meaningless few.

The Memory Wall

This daily ghost
Used to show itself,
Bitter, pale and powder grey.
All that's left
Is a dead red aura
Pulsing all over
In the black lack of center,
While white waves are chasing
The memory wall.