the brightness of my dark

my nights are longer

than my days. a

waning crescent

moon transcends

remnants of a star.

my veins are frozen

with fire, my brain

a runaway train,

speaking with poetic

delusions. a moment

of calm would be

liberation. a litany

of silence a mending

grace. i have gathered

seeds of friendship

and goodwill from

my garden. i have

smudged my lips

with sage. on acute

knees i have chanted

the mantras and

accepted the

painlessness of

lust. i have woven

despair and joy in

duplicate tears. my

demise will be

everything it’s

meant to be. while

waiting my execution,

i smoke my tonic,

swallow my neutralizer,

and take cover behind

a romantic disguise.

spring cultivates a kind heart

in my backyard,

there are blue jays,

robins and cardinals.

and doves that are

always making love.

trees grow higher than

the moon. mountain

streams are double-quick.

they will flow until

the summer solstice.

my well is deeper

than the well of joseph.

in my backyard,

a forest is being born,

creatures gallivant in

the shade. i pick the

shagbark timber i will

use the winter after

next. beyond that

i no longer will

be anxious for

tomorrow, or weep

for red roses that

don’t return. i

live only in the

crack of this

moment, for

a split second,

in my backyard

it takes light to even see our shadow

if there was no sun,

you would have no

shadow. if it wasn’t

for your shadow, i

might never have

touched you. my

acceptance of

your silhouette

came from my

encounter with

your spirit. where

an ego could hide,

i found none. you

have kissed those

outside your heart.

you accept my

vulnerabilities. if i

am violent without

reason, you are

my wounded healer.

the caretaker for

my perceptions. i

cultivated my

garden in poor soil,

in the darkness of

my own shadow.

thank you, for

taking away my

comfort.

old dogs never die

there was this guy,

who knew this guy,

who knew this guy,

who let his dogs run

free. he said that’s

what dogs were

always meant to

be. a spirit born

inside of rainbows.

born with courage

to challenge the

wind. the dog has

been beaten by the

rain and knows the

commands of thunder.

he cares nothing for

gold. he knows the

stench of man and

the perfume of the

skunk. he appreciates

the latter, better. his

worries are concealed

behind dark eyes. a

free dog may grow old,

his bones may rattle, but

old dogs never die. they

live forever in the heart.

mother

mountain.

loud and savage mountain.

beautiful mountain.

you are the ancestry

of my kindred spirit.

you

have given me

my name.

my sisters

are germinating

in liberal soil.

my brothers

are falling

from the sky.

never is the ballad

you sing,

generic.

you have

frightened me

with the wind,

and comforted me

with a breeze.

i wish to hide

in your belly.

your rivers

be the blood

to nourish me.

i have crawled

to your summit,

hiding in

a sterling mist.

i’ve stumbled

in your canyons.

mountain,

beautiful mountain,

a crescent moon

is your smile.

happy am i,

from your kiss

to my brow.

favored am i,

to be your son.

 

i fell in love on april fool’s day

if you find me sleeping in the

blueberry bushes, don’t wake

me. if you see me walking,

don’t offer me a ride. my coat

is missing buttons and my boots

are wearing thin. wintertime

is melting, and i’m looking for

the sun. i’ve lost it before and i

can find it again. this time i’m

not going to plant my seeds too

deep in the garden, or chase the

crows from the corn. the bees

will  be making honey, and i’ll

be letting them be this time.

i’ve been writing down names

to give to the daffodils and

crocus. mama bear and her

twins will be passing through

soon, getting closer to the

brokenstraw. i’m not going to

sell myself short, or rob another

bank cause i’m hungry. march is

about over and it’s going to be

raining every other day. the

thunder will tell me i’m still in

love. i’m not just anyone’s fool,

i’m his.

 

prozac

the sky has disappeared,

heaven has vanished. i am

blind to the sum of all things.

my enthusiasm for a world

without end, is only by

chance. i fret my history.

bygone times haunt my

marrow. the lexicon of my

words echoes in my dumdum

brain. the advent of my joy,

pathetic.  like waiting for

the rain to stop because

the river is rising. my

confessions do not heal

my spirit. the wounds, more

than flesh deep. my veins

are flowing with gravel

and sand. burn me, don’t

bury me, to kill the stink

of man.