"As the Forest Falls Away to Red"

"As the Forest Falls Away to Red"

The wav’ring wavelengths of leaves

as the forest falls away to red,

to orange, to brown, to black and winter,

as the rustling yellow ocean overhead

Breaks upon the brown barken shadows

of petrified men, and viperous roots

that wind, bend, wend, and weave

through mountain’s metamorphosis.

"The Progression of Heavenly Bodies as Space Itself Expands"

"The Progression of Heavenly Bodies as Space Itself Expands"

God was not a model or a watchtower,

not a beacon or a bloodhound

sniffing ‘round on traveled ground to save—nay find my mangled soul.

He was the gravity and the slanted asphalt to my turtle turned over,

elliptically spinning in circles and rock-wriggling to a tottery jaunt

as I passed between the tires of parading angels on vacation’s pavement path.

An entire lifetime lost on a Friday evening highway.

An omnipresent nuisance in the universe of plan’ts and animals,

he was an infant with an ant farm, flicking at our thin glass garrisons.

Or some fucking fisherman hanging worms on hooks to wiggle,

taunting trout and tuna with that mangled martyr’s blood and writhing cries,

ripping infant fish from rivers to only toss them back to this planetary dance of

            despair,

a twirling, whirling waltz of salted earth and saline seas.

He was a gilded fable, silver-lined and diamond-studded,

or some platinum-plated masterpiece masking unkilned clay,

bound to bend in time’s tipping scales of ancient justice and anxiety resolved.

And finally thy judgment has come for thee, lost god.

The jury has returned with verdict and conviction:

No more must orbits dizzy us.

No more must the sun’s spiral wind around our retinas.

No longer will the languor and malaise of man be the fodder of a giggling god.

Free from freedom’s quandary, wandering wayward in the dunes,

ejected from the hell of a halo’s ringing prison,

piercing to the ear and blinding to the mind,

we must wander onward with this boulder beyond reach.

Jupiter must turn atop the mount, spin once upon the summit and topple to the bottom of the valley down below.

Earth must be the birthplace of a people free from fear and retribution,

and only time and wild will will make a grave to take us to,

where gravity shall plant us in the permafrost in permanence

‘til we dissolve into the dirt of earth surrounding us.

"Jut and Just"

"Jut and Just"

The being’s core is one unchanged,

but the mantle, crust, and up above forever shift and shake,

and like the plates, tectonic tides create the mountain range,

jut and just from rock.

Like waves these ranges rise and fall with time,

though so subtly,

and subtlety is not our strongest suit.

And though the core a raging sphere, not fear it is, but love.

Fears like rocky ranges change

slowly, but so surely,

just takes time and steadfast patience.

"From the Zenith of a Midnight Mountain As"

"From the Zenith of a Midnight Mountain As"

The horrors of born men echo throughout history

as they scream from the zenith of a midnight mountain.

As the sun erupts from a summer in hell

and corrupts the summit in a swell of light,

The sphere spins the syntax of torture

as fear bears the universe infernal.

Ex nihilo no longer,

from nothing no more.

"Swaying is the Shadow"

"Swaying is the Shadow"

Rustling is the ripple of the river in the air,

and tree trunks are the riverbank that leads back to the atmosphere.

Swaying is the shadow of the wind in the forest,

and shadows are the swaying of the light through the leaves.

The forest is the acorn that hangs upon a branch,

and branches are the land on which the forest falls.

The ant hill is the land through which its tree roots run,

and water is the light into an ant absorbed.

The sun’s an ocean boiling ove’ onto an outcast island,

and light is the wave on the ocean of existence.

The universe of light and water, wind, and found on sound.

The universe an acorn hanging, a brown leaf on a tree.

"Omniscience from the Upper Atmosphere"

Moving to a new format now, a poem a day, regardless of length.  I may occasionally post some prose, but that's an uncertainty.  So anyway, enjoy.

"Omniscience from the Upper Atmosphere"

The liquid skin of a great lake, a

blue-cerulean rippling fingerprint.

Matted clouds of sheared sheep’s wool

melt flat throughout the atmosphere.

The patchwork farmland landscape,

square-quilted corn and still-green grains.

Sun-sparks bounce back from steel cells

on the concrete veins of man’s ambition.

"The Garden Path"

"The Garden Path"

Blurt your purpose from the foothills of Olympus.

Scream these dreams in an invisible voice that echoes off Andromeda.

Fill your world with fire so that your death may be a beacon.

Swallow galaxies and shit new universes, worlds that rhyme and time in meter.

Do what you will,

but your dreams are just a shimmering sheen of the mind,

a playful display of textures, images, and dispositions,

the goals of an inconsequential soul ripping flowers from the ground as it leads

       you

down a garden path.

It is an eye rhyme to your mind,

a false perception of the perfection of light from a mirror at your back bouncing

       off a mirror in your face.

You are a loop and it is the centrifuge.

It is the bulb from which your fluorescent light sprouts

and the dirt inside your eye socket.

It is the trowel, the spade, the diamond, and the

                                                                                 severed hand,

and you are the blood that floods the flowerbed that drowns the dreamers as

       they sleep.

You are now the now-soaked soil and soon the soon-smooth rock.

You are the charred bark on a branch of lightning, and the unheard thunder of

       Tunguska's flattened forest.

It is the demon of a desperate god,

the blank slate tablet of the apostrophic angel,

the void of a monk’s mind shrunk into a bubble, POPPED

and mopped up by a puppy’s tongue.

Because when you have these dreams you have these dreams and that is all.

And when you have these dreams they have you too,

and maybe just as much.

"A Nondollar Dirge" and "When Winter Went"

"A Nondollar Dirge"

Thought love, thought death

on a causeway felt fine breath blow trees over

and felt them shivering cells within

felt a-quivering quills a-po’cupine

once dipped squidly inkwise

thought I’d write a corpse curve inward

but didn’t

saw the needles green trees pine

plummet, plump plumlike

saw life, saw death

thought nothing of ‘em

thought on

thought on a crow’s caw

swayed

and sang a nondollar dirge

‘twas all underwhelming

‘twas all underground

"When Winter Went"

When winter went,

when winter was,

when spring did sprint into,

when spring was spent,

when summer suns

released their heat for you,

when summer lent

to autumn love

not fall did leaves, they flew,

when autumn bent

in winter’s blood

the world began anew.