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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
| With a free hand… Door closes Vacuum seals me in Windowless gazing wallpaper worlds Door opens Air gushing all out Cross-legged ruminate wall-world messages I am free as I was before Thanks To All. 12.31.24 11th hour, 2024, in your houses no ghost roams Poetry found me, not the other way around. It’s a gift…and a curse. But mostly, a burden. |
| Collapsible and Rising Hands tied and in my dark Soon to swing Hope the angels sing A chorus, in death, a lark Plunge me further Toward humility Filled with wonder, alone But not dread that I could lose my head A chorus for you I’d phone in Instead, elevate Toward ignominy I bear this weigh on land legs Cross-strapped for you Because you need me to Stand on this platform Let all pass through Toward indignity One lever displaces a floor, the galvan-blade Sudden game stayed Before a knot frayed, neck coarse Still your undead, spirited Toward humanity The soul of one man, not severed Either, or in any way, Not deprived air in judgment days A tongue stilled. But, a pen-hand Cannot hush, walks tall tides thick Toward divinity See you there? 12.27.24 Made up here in 12 minutes, listening to Rhye “Sinful”. Editing longer. On this scape, no one’s goat. Everything broken before I could enter a POW incarnation of Machiavellian-inspired complication, dystopian wall writ and flawed, because you cannot apply a Chekhov instrument in this…space Every outcome known and knowable, cannot make a true Winston drop, take a knee without the missing physical element…merely a rug tug… not the referential bus, beneath body-tossed. More will than all and …not dead…beca-ause…. |
| You look lonely and worried… Spun out and perfectly content. |
| I Wake To Rest I wake with numb sensations that make me wonder if I might be alive if I might rise, hover over carpet, dully view out nose-print pane of memory scenes, if I might go to recollections after thoughts I might be moved through a frame slightly larger than the necessary size, if I might wander on worn hall carpet position to see larger frames with inset glass tempered with just the right scenes where life witnessed grand, if I might see a view of the street should I float down past suspended images on walls of their likenesses if I might make it to the landing open vista to anywhere that I might imagine a horizon that day seek warmth from sun up to set without a regret yet I linger inhabit a world I claimed, but not mine where I’ve laid to rest many years skin-crimp this wrist, twist red, redder, again and again hope hoping put on spectacles to see sights of all that remains in these shadows, where I’ve communed in silent illumination, also wondering, if this is my story post death. I would send post cards from the grave if I could. This one’s for you. Sorry I’m not there to see you open. 12.9.24 39 lines She stumbled over skin-crimp, as I didn’t want a tired expression for pinch…still working on? |
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