February 9th 2015

The crow does more than only fly
What else?

She clips her
wings, dipping.

Niggered cut of feather
streaking arcs
of ink across the acrid sky.

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another, anew

another, anew

From without
And within I am
Rattled by the
Din of revolution

The welter of
Emotion makes
For strange waters
Which I am to
Now wade

Brave tin soldier
Inching toward
Certain demise

I’ve killed oneself
And in her wake
another, anew,
Arising:

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its own tail

Depression is
not a dent nor a dearth of depth but rather a stillness. It is
the absolute
halt of the clock; it is the stay of ticking hands. It is the rolling
pin over everything, a forest dumbed down to stump and even
open plain. It is the arcless
sorrow of the familiar; the
absurdity of the serpent
eating
at its own tail.

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Arcade

Arcade

Like locus they arrive
In waves
To feast on their fill
Of the deadliest fried
Delights. Lips smack happily
Streaked with grease as
Idle chatter pushes
Through the mouthfuls

Some come for the
‘Best Shoeshine in Nashville!’
Razor-lipped businessmen sit
In stoney silence while
Black hands buffer and
Black mouths speak only
To each other

Upstairs
The walls are weary they
Bear the burden of
Obscene art that nobody
Will buy

The Russian-owned gallery
Is the most American of
Them all. Hers is a practice
Of bloated pride. She of
Ruble-less origin now
Hawks her pedestrian
Vision with
The best of them!

All of this where
Hanged men once twitched
And kicked as the
Last bit of life
Leaked out

Their spirits evicted
Divorced from the corpse
Whose swollen tongues
Played peek-a-boo
With passer bys

What a span we’ve traversed
In a century’s time!

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Terminus

Terminus

Into what do
The trains run
Dead into once
Relieved of the bodies
On board?

I watched one once
Retreat deep
Into the tunnel til
It was but a ‘2’
Burning
first red then
–vanished!
Too far to
be probed by
My roving eyeball

A metallic graveyard
Perhaps? Where steel
Boned giants rests?
Imagine!
An industrial-sized bed
Where slumber sounds like
Rusty lunged snores
Sound out from
Titans lulled to sleep.

Beyond my mortal eye-
What does the train run
Dead into?

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also.

Also.

We run down one
clock, we two
the same
sand that swallowed you
trickles on
me also

The minutes diminish
me
every second– a metered slap
no need to speak of
the hours!

I arrived at twenty eight
your mirror
sickened by the oiled
grin of
The Serpent

His smile has
tore into
you
to boot!

We stand a hair apart
how thin the
pair of years
between us!
Next to you
I am
beside myself.

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An Agony

An Agony

From every pore
A pang
Sprung forth

Blood blew
The wound off the
Seismic shift
of ligaments

Needs not the
Pageant of gore, for

Even more grim
Than the pomp of
Crimson

Is an agony
Cleaned of
Color

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