Saturday, June 1, 2013

The new season

I got a name and a place. Maybe shame within grace. It's flowing out of outstretched arms. It's welling up in a twitch. A gasp that speaks in stoicism. Of tension drenched in cynicism. Bubble-wrapped layers of protection. Cargo dripping with the death of supplantation. Out of its element.

When things go awry. It's there waiting outside the door. In conference with its quashed thoughts. Under the table it lies. Ghosts of the dead moments. Expressed in an activity report. Quietly brewing up a new plan. To move this spike from the table to the grave. The new code.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Effective presentation

Projecting failures out into the future. Stacks of cards lined up across the table. In rows you just can't make them straight. Rationalizations in the key of existence. And heads in the damp dark clouds. The scanner shows it sinking. But logistics surely lead the way. From the show into the storm.

On legs all wobbly and loose. This table holds forth the half-baked plans. The epilogue is a shame faced red.  For the silence in the story. And the motions are of a steel-toed boot. Kicking the shit up slowly and dutifully. Churning in silence biting your lip. Waiting through the turn.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

The great god-like projector

The great god's projection is upon us. The great god's projector never lies. Solemn light and shade and heat. Breaking upon us. I've never met a moment so clear as the moment that I see in you. Alternating and turning away. Breaking free is understanding the gravity that we are subject to. Books and tablets are carved in stone. Prescribing the past the present and future. It's just a meditation that we have. He and I she and I and we wait. We watched undulations kicking across the surface. With such intensity as to say "this is that which you will become". We watched tension boiling over and we agreed. That the surface was buckling and would have to explode. We walked as to know ourselves. With delusions trailing behind like menacing headlights.

Friday, July 27, 2012

God's Cave

Billows from a canyon. In shadows formulation. A god-form pervasive and dense. One gigantic clip or chapter. It can literally suck you dry. Of life and of inertia. Shackling or piercing or nailed to the floor. But when eased and prodded. And carefully peeled back. Harnessed with such an extreme degree of concentration. It begins circulation. It casts light again. Gray shadows become nuances. Within them lie beginnings. Upon them forever and ever. Lead the way then follow.

Saturday, April 28, 2012

It's Time

It's time to start something. It's time to start something akin to unraveling. It's time to begin to being. It's time to knock off the rust. When time graces and when time sprawls. It's time to start mending menacing moments. It's time for breath and healing. It's time for the great unwinding. It's time for the great unwinding from the sky. Breathless in an ocean of infinity. It's time for waxing and waning. It's time for waves upon you both warm and jarring. It's time for resting upon the tops of heaps. Of motioning rumbling unrest beneath you. It's time to realize that the morning creeps into your room. And shakes you with an anxious sigh. It's time to pass between a stage. And know that life and death are interchangeable words. It's time to pass the rung to the space below.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Manic Distraction

Exposed tooth in an icy bath
Raw skin friction never ending
Chisel away to a hollow core
Volume open-space self loathing
Looking out the eye of a funnel
Daily planner-narcissism
Seeking out things soon to be hated
Another voyage onward and upward
Offer solutions without any problems
Waking up just feeds an addiction
Blazing paths are scorching earth
A demon's aborted exorcism

image courtesy of

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Shapes of Motion

The days are the shapes of motion. Formations extending bursting outward. The majestic solitude of motion. Ghosts across the landscape.

Echoes and ringing and screeching halts. The drift you feel so deliberate. Deaths become marks on a timeline. Pain becomes a void sprung forth from.

The days are the shadows reflecting. More than just time or light. The motion ever-defining what it means. To scan or to plot the course.

I'm looking at my hand as a map. So coarse and worn so often used. I'm the jagged detail that is cast. The spade that plants the stake.