There is Nothing Here but Words and Sounds

I reach into you and scrape marrow
Peel skin away
starting at the navel
until you are bare.
This is all.
There is no metaphor for you to swallow whole.
A lump in your throat.
Laying on a bed disheveled.

The arrows point to the south.
Your open maw-
Words romp and rustle their way out of
the gap in the lower hemisphere of your expressionless face.
Pull from inside
Maybe the right sentences will
come from the belly of the beast.
Drooling from the sides of your mouth
singing songs of the Serengeti
packs of predators nipping at the heels.

Oh,
The days are in fact
Heartbreaking.
Birds beat their unfortunate wings
Looking for somewhere to go.

Does this make sense?
Does this even make sense?

Ballads are sung in the nocturnal hours
and I know not where they came from.
Somewhere deep inside.
Somewhere,
Where the fears accumulate and tussle against
the walls of your thinly lined abdomen,
coming together and compounding
until they amalgamate into one mass
and nothing is true anymore.

The buzzer sounds.
The pie is ready.
Set the table and speak your prayers.
“Heavenly father, for I have sinned,
lay me down until I wake
I will repent for all the ill-deeds
I have committed;
Point me Northward;
Point us home.”

Angle the compass towards the shore and walk.
Don’t ever stop,
even when the sand slides into the ocean
and you are towed toward the horizon by Jupiter by your big toe.
Continue walking as if you mean it,
(Don’t you dare fucking stop)
and you aren’t just the disparaged youth striving for attention.
don’t lie.
Don’t lie to us all,
or then you will understand wrath.
god is dead.
We are here.
Fear the stick.
Devour the carrot.
Lead us down the road of perdition
with smiles on our lowly, wind-battered faces.

And maybe when the eternal consequences are over
Bat an eyelash or two in my direction.
Speak slowly and softly
so the men don’t misunderstand you
in these times of Cholera and plagues.

Slide deep into this slimy heart of mine,
Covered in moss and brackish waters,
Like the men of the Irish bogs.
We have come full circle.
It beats slow
Slowing until the 3/4′s time comes to a
disappointing halt.
Grabs your coats, overcoats, and scarves.
Sir, madame.
It was pleasant having you this evening.
Lines through the door.
Please arrive home safely.
There’s nothing left to see.

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My lover swims in San Diego
Comes home to a raging fire
Lets the wind come and go
Treads water in a loveless mire

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15.

Follow my cracking, aging voice

Through the deserted buildings

Endless, winding hallways

Hours and hours we sit lauding our art

Screaming to each other

“We are beautiful!

We are creators!

We are one another’s muse,

Triggering deep within ourselves a spark

Coming from Lucifer’s genius hands.”

Devious minds

Coming home with blazing feet

Dragging on the gravel like a child.

Oh, may we dance in the rainy streets

Twisting and jiving like our Grandparents did

Making mistakes our grandparents made.

My vest melts into your dress

Satin, rouge, emeralds draping down your shoulders

Prosecco spilling from your glass

(Stop your spinning, or else we’ll tumble).

Nimble fingers tango down your spine

Dance

Dance

And we hop

Skip

Believing we are free

Breathing air.

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Descent

And half of my face goes numb
Tears welling at the source
Because the mountain growing in the depths of my throat
Needs to be purged
To fall from the fountain
Spilling to the floor
That I still love you
But you’d hate that
Because you despise weakness
Especially in your own heart
Fists crumpled like metal folding in on its melted self
Beating on the chest of others
Screaming in the key of malice
Coming forth like a runaway train from the shallow tunnel

Vanishing into a liquid abyss
Birds disappear from shore
All in due time
Flocks, murders, and the sorts
Split in their self-desire of exploration
But in an all too timely inevitability
We will be grounded
By the heel of God
Into the soft Earth
Bones, blood, and our teeth fit neatly into the confines of the continent
And we are content

Today

Speak directly into the sun
Your vibrant microphone
Calls for the heralds
To bring good news
To your begrudging life.

Isn’t it amazing?
A storm
Soiled with fragranced lavender
Melted candles
Sweeping sea breeze
Intently holding onto its source
Deep
Somewhere over the vastly empty horizon.

Wake up
Wake up falling into the cloth of your first bed.
Scream and shout violently
Clutching to the pillow
Asking for your lord and your savior
As they are two different people.
As they have been born into two different worlds.

Twisting in the throes of passion
A man is born
Twisting in the throes of passion
A man has died.

Achingly
We get older
Words escape us like the quicksilver bird
From the voracious yawn of the sovereign mouth
Letting loose from your own grasp
You lose your mind
Like a child grasping for water

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14.

May you never be amazed

By what your hands create.

As the roads you aimlessly drive bend and flex under your gravity

I hope the words fall from your beautiful mouth while you

Give the eulogy to your former self.

Rusted nickels and dimes click in your front pocket,

Coming free as they fall into the open portal of your home.

I believe that you have earned this gift.

But this will be under a scarlet veil

Regal, wrapping delicately around your mouth,

Your young teeth chipping away,

I feel as if I knew you well.

You are a different person the way your God intended

Kicking up dust clumsily in the wake of your sublime shoulders,

Coming home just to recognize the scent of your first bed.

There was a light coming from the bottom of your white door,

But I knew you weren’t awake in the way we wanted. 

Rising from a hole in the ground,

Witnessing the waving trees and rippling clouds and welcoming valleys;

You can never return again.

Cymbals clash in the rain

Stand alone in your enlightened symphony.

Only the streetlamps and passing autos will bring light to you in this darkened hour.

Walk away slowly

Dry gravel escaping the road cracks under your feet.

Speak

Even though it hurts

Drinking from a straw in the drying ocean.

It’s better than blindly throwing yourself in every direction,

Kicking and flailing recklessly until you strike the wall.

Remember your first-

Dearly you walk through the hall,

Four inch heels clicking and an empty echo followed you to the living room.

Do you remember who you were?

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12.

As the breeze passes gently,
Ushering dancing clouds past your sleeping head,
Benignly floating through the strands of your hair
And you feel nothing-

As the luscious, deep, green forests
Dash by your dazed eyes on the barreling train,
Your eyelashes flutter,
Signifying nothing-

As the Winters and Springs leap
With the snow slipping down the mountainsides and
Raising up towards the heavens in a swirling, godly mist,
The birth and death of the years
Of the fallen redwoods
Of the blackbirds pushing their children to their deaths as they learn to fly
Means nothing-

As the creases fold upon themselves
Curling down from the years of angst and sadness
And the scales on your hand continue to break and separate,
Catching the strands of silver hair,
Scream and cry about the lonesome days and broken hearts,
As the world hears nothing.

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Spring

What songs have you left to sing
Down at the shoreline’s shore
As our broken Winters turn to spring
Light burns our new eyes sore

Remove once and twice your pelted jackets
Darkest times have come to lay
We observe the sky’s most every facet
Our months have gone astray

Grow your homes in the tallest trees
Build your family from the ground
Build upon your ailing knees
For tomorrow we shan’t be found.

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Sublimity in the Dying Hour

Blood rushes achingly to the heart as anemic hands carry you
Outward to the peaceful, kind corners of the mind,
Haunted by the ghosts of your former selves
Haunting you from the corners of your cornea.
Looking silently over the landscape,
Brush and barren valleys laid out in Juliet’s likeness,
Vainglorious weathervanes point with confidence to a path of least resistance.
Residue builds up, relics of your ancestors
Come high in the dust that blows onto your doorstep.
Tangerine sunsets come from your westhand side,
A passive hand softly cleaving the groves of your surname.
Through the leaves, sunlight drifts in, one ray by one ray’s length.
Blackbirds flock to the roof of your house
Settling in harmony, in the same breath as the walls.
Clouds undulate with the invisible hand of the wind
Resisting the urge to reluctantly fall from grace
Trudging through the atmosphere to the southern valley and beyond.
Pacing with forsaken feet,
Clasping one another’s hands, the veins in the back of our hands protrude,
Rivers gradually rise in the cracking, aged skin of the earth.
Pray as we give our loved ones more love,
Hope this pays off one day in our eternal timeline,
Discovering the fields of grain, waving farewell,
As we ascend, looking down from above.

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Water Rushes into the Man.

Crystalline dreams
Angels wrapping their wings around your eyes
Wake in still disillusion

Carving letters into your mind
Sap coming from cedar

Up comes the devil
Taking your pride
Swallow by dying swallow

Hear your lowly heartbeat
Writhing in your chest
The road keeps you home, solemn

District by district comes flashing by
Washington, Auburn, Clovis
Hear your placid tongue come to wail

If you should die tonight
Know that a tropical sun shines down on august men
Your loved ones stand there
Bidding you a beautiful farewell

And if we die tonight
Could we all die together?
God places you in the Chateau de Chambord
Laying on the spires raising to the Heavens
Hoping to slip slowly into Le Cosson

Scream from the bottom of the river
For he to abdicate his throne
As you ascend to
Heaven,
Heaving.
Drowning.

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