A Cardiac Episode

There is a hollow carved in me,
an area created by hepatic knurling.
A space which serves as a hospice
for my Care, and Hope.
A place where these two
are given warm towels
light but tasty food, and
236 channels of cable TV
for entertainment while they
wait and bleed. I can
hear the rasp of their
labored breath; the choking
hemoptysis; the lesion wails
they cry into their pillows when
they believe no one else is
around. My heart is
heavy from the ichnite
filling the spaces
they have fallen from;
I drift in hemal circles.


-- from Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

Lunacy

from Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

With the eddy motion
of autumnal fog -- hushed
as last breath around
the shanks of men -- the
Moon strolls to her apex;
planets are  her path stones.
Her lunette breasts sheathed
in the fabric of lithium clouds,
keened sheer by the West wind,
distract even far flown storm.
Her youth is vibrant;
Kev blue eyes, promethium
skin. Her passage silent;
latria songs marquertied in the
mercerized gown across her thighs.
The radiant goddess of the manes,
and mercurial denizens; who shift
through islands of amber light
and shadows bloated with night;
the hiemal ecosystem of the
streets below.
Those whose lives are ruled by tides,
respect her budding aspect, aware
that these maturing eyes remember
the snarled hours of her crone,
and the ensanguine gown
sometimes worn on nights she
is in bloom; hungry.

Even in her darkest age -- her petals flint,
her brilliance burned -- she entices
latent swells to rise and churn.
Men and women of the tides and sea
have heard the whales sing to
her noir-waters above, twining
the celestial to earth with
bind-song harmonies of worship
and love.
Those of lupine nature are more repine,
knowing all of her aspects are heady and
sublime. The call and howl from deep
wood and vale, for the West wind to
bring her full cloak and hood, to cover
her lunar light and its silver urn, before
the world is warped by the
effusion vapors of quicksilver burn.

Walking through Logan

Here I move among the happenings,

breathing the miasmas of needing,

hearing the the wrenching seizures of solitude

and foot fall through the shallows

of winter's waters

horded in pot-holes.

In the dark looks, under the heavy brows

of the shadows limping past, needing,

I see their eyes are no longer

lucid devices.

Headlights and Broadways

by static amber light and

speeding white-blue

a boy picks from the gutter

not a toy,

or a ball,

not a coin,

but the death of a squirrel

holding it high

bushy brush tail wire

between thumb and forefinger

Joy

alarms from his lips

but there is too much alarm

on these streets

for others to notice.

The Furies and Lucidity

You hear a hundred darker lines

each turn of the sunlight

mine are only troubling

in an articulate way

The voice of the calling

from outside the amber light

inside the edge of shadows

is easy to ignore

He is mad you say

His is intoxicated and estranged

He is not me you say

You walk on untouched

My words are ruthless lucidity

Dark, yes, Shadow, yes... clear

not coal for wrath

but edged for bloodletting

Within the melee and uproar

of the towering full moon

may my words taint

the madness calling

and open to you,

the woes and the furies in his drunken heart