Burden Of Substance

The world is emptied of two
Neglect chose their early leave

One in search of ease,

cooked a black tar for her veins

Poisonous soup

Did she know she would drown?

More poison than blood lured her from here


One in search of virgin strength,
left the early cure alone

Her lungs grew tight with pneumatic promise
The closing had begun

no recourse

no remedy

Did she know she would drown?

The breath that had carried her, swiftly took her

It was not the same porous air consistent to life

Now we remain, minus two


An American Education

The blues escorted us into the schoolday
where we assembled

Half poised with blurred eyes and dulled intellect,
drugs in our pockets and knives in our shoes,

we sat

Education as a container does not hold.

Not the dated histories
Not the scientific violations
Not the ancient english

We all planned escape
but instead studied aversion

Disappointment disguised as instruction taught us to hide our gifts and grow the scars of apathy that kept us seated.

A forsaken mass,
unable to disengage.

Two thousand hours given at america's table.



at america's table.

Red Cups

There they hold, two red cups,
red as my hearts vein

Green stock support cups of kissable crimson

From below these vessels call your eyes,
call them into folded hands,
hands that bleed unto your romance

Scissors armed,
you cut this power off at the principle,
so you think

Clutching these kissable reds close to your intention,
your absurd intention

but they burn

burn through your fingers,

your romance,

your shape

Opening your flesh to the possibilities of a heart won

Cutting slivers, silly slivers of desire into perfect, perfect cups

Father Bird

Crow you cockeyed bastard

Unfold the wings that feather your simple heart

Spill those seeds of virtue,
Father Bird

Ripe with faithless lore

Scratch out a path in the dirt for us children,
Father Bird

Dark as you are,

Sharp as you are,

Youth plucks from you,

Your talons miss our flesh

Miss it by a mile



She whispers above my breast,
I sweat diamonds

With no wind as symphony,
we shake the shadow of a thousand winters
never to ache in a frantic language
or worship a bitter picture away.

How sweet beneath her appetite am I?
Her skin a submission for the seeking
swindling time from sleep

Languid in our tiny blue garden,
may it not be a fancy
but essential music