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Boy:in leaves

Death,
I beseach thee
Come in
Take rest in my chair
sink deep and cold in my home
chill the marrow of her branches
rend the flesh of her lively leaves
Take food and drink
make foolhearty talk and slur
lie in my bed
then softly,
cradle my head in the wee hours
for please,
you are invited



The Dead Ends

Who posts those signs near the start of a street
just assuming
that the pavement itself is dead or dying?
well they aren't proficient.
Who has the nerve to spoil the supprise?

And what if some soul wants to dance through the wheat?
You can't MAKE something dead.
you're playing God himself or you're lying
for some fuel efficient
White collar smaller dollar car meets it's demise

They showed us how they make a human life
then killed it
how they run deep a pothole
and filled it
Said they could end what's not theirs to take
and willed it

I say these are the ONLY living veins./
Too free and better untamed./
Too packed with life to plow./
Too wild and green to pluck./
Too overgrown to burn..../

Survival of the fittest love...

A road left unwritten
Mosquito bites unbitten
A life left un-livin

A child here in heaven




Afternoon Burnings

Curling strips of
Old Peeling wallpaper chip
Paintings are tainted by
Cigarette smoke it’s all
Yellow

Light through the curtains
A rash on your skin
From tossing and turning
The bed-sheets are burning in
Nothing’s for certain with
Yellow

Tiles on the sealing spin
Fan-blades re-reeling in
Dirt hugging the corners of
mouths all fixed up in
absolute quiet
the Loonie bin
yellow


Breakingpoint [more of a short narrative poem?]

It was a lazy fog he sat in. The chair rusty and bent so that it squeaked with every breath. Every twitch of his left nostril. The tiles below him scraping on the grit between the metal chair legs/arm rests.

A heavy wooden slab in front of him passing for a desk is concintration. He stars at, it but through it. Into another world. Back to another place a time about half a decade ago...

Most of the vanitian blinds were closed and only a pale yellow filled the room tainting the screaming white cinderblocks that established "walls."

There was no music

There was no sanity

sanity had left this place four years ago.

just the dull scrape of life in the bottom of a brown orange cage on the windowsill. One life force crunching on another.

A musk crept into the room with the fog. The smell of sweat and dust, but mostly dirt, And that cheap shampoo.

The music in his mind flowing silently back and fourth and filling his room slowly, from top to bottom. He stands and grasps the swirling blue tome on the shelf above. He forces it to the table wrestling it open with all the power he has in his chewed brown fingertips.

He scans the pages over and over. And stops. a dying click-pen scrawls under a picture or two the beautiful silent music that once graced this home.

But his fingertips are not brown. The room is brighter or darker... it's hard to tell for the blinds are only half shut and the door is forced open with a loud crack. Coughing. Another voice laughs and a pack is thrown to the bed. A smile crosses his face now that the dusty musk is a little fresher and he stands tall and proud once again.

"Dude, where were you?"