Pedestals of Rose Petals

I stand on pedestals
of thorns and rose
petals, prick and the blood flows.

my ragged shoulder
sore at the socket
pops and I feel the pain
of separation:
the forever far off sound
of percussion, the suction
of ears as they make meaning of chaotic air
as the ground trembles,
the wind passes
through space and time
passes through our very fiber
but still accounting for the toothless decay
of humans thin,
or rotten in old age
against the supple nakedness of young skin,
ever met with ever.

The glory of sunrise matched only by
a night spent waiting for its rays to pierce my flesh
as arrows pierce armor as bullets shred for death.
And yet the sun rises this cool September morn.

whimper (final draft more or less)

passed down through generations
tangled fur, twisted teeth
the ragged glare of teeth bared
against the solitude of a witch-black forest.
Pine needles soften the sound
footsteps and sound of a dog dying,
so soon heard in echoes
as flesh from bone begins
the vagaries of rot

only to be recycled and found renewed in
the lives of other things,
as leaves of trees
or the moss between our toes.

But death sounds still long for tender days
not of misfortune made,
or truth that so too fades
into darkness turned soft blue
against the coming of the sun.

belly of the beast

Our bodies grow
of and from
nature impregnable;
though wind tunnels travel through
sandblast hard metal caps
and building’s tumbled rock

and dagger glass red cut carpets
beaten hanged and rotten
left to be eaten,
left to be left inside the heart ache
mind of quashed dreams
(shaken
sound rattles on
long
licked out
dried dead drums
of fine furs).

I recall the rhythm
of pebbles thrown,
concentric circles lapping the edges
of memory
of pumpernickel lives;
hindsight condemning misdeeds
of condoms seen
and memories that no longer lift
the lighter weight of spirit
kismet my dream,
the bowels of the belly echoes;
for today the coming of a breathless shaking tomorrow.

But do not forget breakfast:
tofu scrambler green pepper onion tomato

home fries black pepper and onion oregano,
digest while I rage
digest while I ride
digest while I read;

digest
in the belly of the beast.

Ramshack Trashcans

There- Among the tottering
ramshackle four-story brick row homes
built from misery and missed opportunities,

There- Trashcans overflow
amid downpours and indifference:
gutterjunk needles thick with disease
don't get caught out in the street!
wet walls of dry pastels
as poisoned blood
now collects in puddles.

In the dark and busted though thick glass
ground to clay choked like bone dry mud,
cleft knives a harbinger of centuries-long neglect
played out in front of your eyes.
A mural: cube men hungering for labor
swinging thick hammers one hundred pounds hard,
but dirt-caked the color of iron-red
cramped with living flesh amid the confusing and violent,
like a theater stage for all mankind.

And the children carry upon their shoulders
our dust wept sherry-caramel apple filling flavored lives.

A Soon Shattered Day

Across meads thick brown with tussocks
field-gray soldiers march,
ancient crosses wrapped around their arms,
sway in twos
to strike like razor blades
to swing as crescent moons do.

Ahead distant smoke curls up and is caught in the light wind
in wisps it drifts away from homes
dug deep into warm hillsides.
But they soon follow paths
that tread through snow and past frozen ponds.
Cold white breath exhales across the calm meadow.
And as rough-hewn glass before it cracks
the still ice reflects the fading light
of this soon shattered day.

From my spot no one can stop
me from hearing their in lockstep walk of death.
No one can stop me from hearing their safeties click off,
and though not knowing how long
sweat clings to my clammy palms, drips from my armpits,
sweat beads collect and slip down the small of my back.
Sweat collecting into puddles of blood and tears
as I watch...as I read...

And they come, snowflakes dampening dark coats:
-There comes a loud knock on the door.
Children in closets frantically whisper,
rugs made sure
closets and chests shut tight.
-There comes another loud knock on the door.
Rust and paint crust
casts into the stale air with every shake of the door.
-There comes now a heavy THUD on the door.
Age-old hinges give in and the door collapses
dust scatters and cold air floods in:
a slow-motion shot at scenes end.