eye pollen

i blew you off
like a dead dandelion
floating on a stiff breeze.
lying to ourselves

about wanton desires.
we're dry timber
just waiting for a spark.
lightning never strikes

the same hearts twice
so i walked away.
made your argument
against deaf ears.

you can't see that
we're helen keller,
trying to traverse
a great divide with

none of our senses intact.
just let your fingertips
slip a little and
we'll both be free.

testing

i swear you miss
worming around in
the consumption of
your blinking eyes.

somewhere in the distance
windows into dead souls
escape the inconvenience
because it's not

for answers but
recognition and attention
what these thoughts are.
mocking intonations

opened a door
when you weren't around.
chopping anything in its path
i don't know what

kicking rocks into
tired and zoning silence
drip slowly away.
i felt cheated.

ensemble

a balding, white-haired
man sits in the dark
until 3 a.m. with
his eyes lightly shut.

his head bounces
softly to the sounds
of miles davis. tomorrow
this old soul's heart

will beat it's final
beat. premonitory vision
of impending death, perhaps
mere coincidence.

flash forward to
a bright day.
the aroma of freshly
excavated earth lingers.

tears stain wind
burnt faces as a
trumpet blows quietly.
miles' final farewell.

learning everything over

suicide sounds so good
in times like these.
ingesting gasoline
and sleeping it off.

clenching fists in
a spasming slumber.
hallucinations of holding
you in my arms.

even in this state,
i'm dying to hear
you call my name
just one more time.

how come you sheltered
me, shattered me?
i'm broken now...
unrepairable.

who are you
to tell me where to go?
sharp stabs between
ribs; bitter barbs

cutting out my
heart. dissolving
security envelopes
my mind and chokes.

the great depression

justification is a bitch,
indeed. the world seeks
clarity of facts.
cynical drunk that i am;

i wonder how to go
about the process
of defying acceptance
by the masses.

if anyone should find,
on a trip to the bookstore,
a ratty copy of the Cliff's Notes
on life, please purchase

a copy for me
and my bumbling, drunken soul.
charity is accepted
along with this large

ball of swallowed pride.
waking up in a world
that holds only
shades of grey;

where does the next
drawn breath through
clenched teeth lead?