Descension

Down the stairs the balding man steps.

Gingerly.

Steady is his progress,

Unsteady is his energy,

As he is ever unready.

He descends.

Onward, he descends.

Quaking, he descends,

To an unclear end.

Downward to the unwelcome basement,

He descends.

Boots echoing in the caged abyss,

Paralyzed breath steamed amiss.

B.T. One-hundred and three,

These panicky degrees,

Set sick creativity free.

His heart chirps inside its nest,

Critically straining its palpitating chest.

Hunted!

Hunted hot breath fogs the chill night, scattering frightful snow flurries to flight. Running legs burn in the powder, crunching louder, louder. The pursuit is on. Ominous imagination paints on a canvass this panicked translation: “Must escape. Must escape.” Night’s undercover sounds fire adrenaline, and flight takes hold. The predator chases with honed instinct, forever bold. Wildly, it gains a distance untold.

The chilled prey, savagely alone and savagely tracked, cries out for crucial necessities lacked. Wishes the must and rust off youth’s empowering golden lust. A trustworthy spirit perceives the cry, and to the endangered one she flies. Nature’s light warps to twilight, and she arrives with mustered might. With a whip of her auburn essence, she banishes away age’s putrescence. A cloud of magic dust fluffs from the prey’s quivering crust. Vigorous life rejoins the veins for hopeful youth has been regained, and strength now courses where weakness had lain. Head is held high with the rising tide, a confidence augmented by pride. It is neither reckless, neither snide.

Enter eager predator onto the wintry plain. Growling insane teeth glisten, determined to reign. But the strengthened prey shall be its bane. For the prey’s defense is not in vain. By the gainful spirit, instinct was trained. The predator attacks and attacks again. Glimpse blooded wounds and twisting pain. See maroon manes knotted in vengeful rains.

The lightning moon moves to its silent tune. Its wan scarred face patiently awaits the end. It poses the judicious question: when? Tea time? Supper? Perhaps high noon? The lightning moon observes the grunting shadows. They claw, grasp, tear, cleave, bereaved of sense, energetically shallow.

At last the shapes cease. Both have experienced release. The endangered one’s mind is finally at peace. And the victor returns to life in one piece. The benevolent spirit transports to the east where the sun is rising advertising like a tired priest. Its dictation hounds a starving soul slavering over an unreachable feast. Forevermore, forevermore…until the supernova’s dreaded surcease, and the striking end of all.

When I Drink

I drink when I think,
The gears of my mind clink,
But often my thoughts are thrown from the rink,
Even before I can blink,
Then the gamblers' money chinks and plinks,
It is me they seek to sink,
But I float in a sea of ink,
Of the scribe's trade I stink,
Girls say my words look pretty in pink,
But they're just searching for a loving link,
Striding toward adolescence's brink,
To marriage, to wealth, to fame, they slink,
The writer, I, have followed, followed, followed....

You're amazed at the whole, and you wish yourself into its soul. Let your fire pervade your thought; let fly your individuality; embrace your surreality. Struggle to become what you are not, what you can never be, what you never will be. Struggle not to see. Cry your wanton tears in humble fear, hot and vibrant across disowning cheeks. Rewind and idolize, a foolish renter, sorrowful and meek. Dress your identity in a desperate skin and walk as though you were in. Take my pity home to befriend it when you are alone, tossed off of your phantom throne.

Relentless Cough

The rasping resounds outside my window, denying death. On and on it lurches leaving little room for breath, darkening a lively afternoon with its jagged tune. I can’t help but listen, can’t help but wonder: when will the hacking thunder stop? An obscure answer hides amongst medical facts. I shut the blinds and close my ears, but the sound peeks through the cracks.

Wind Fallen Fruit

Their succulence evaporates overnight,

Devoured in the sleeping blight.

Dried juices, brown interior,

Ripe treasures now inferior.

Ravished taste,

Laid to waste.

A squashed unsightly jell,

With wafting undead smell,

From my wind fallen fruits.

To Health

Feeling healthy this restful morning.

Body laughs with glee,

The monster hunger flees,

Leaves the stomach free.

Enthused energy glides,

To a state of great rides,

To truths untried.

A fresh day is come.

Welcome chores welcome.

Eager Young Mind

The confident young fern,
Desperate to learn,
Builds her unskilled pride.

With a brash heart,
Rash from the start,
She rushes the frayed sky.

Held back by a parental arm,
The charge harbors charm,
But arouses no alarm,
Eager though it be.

Dismayed but undaunted,
She struggles against bondage,
And my watching soul is haunted.

Roadkill!

The road trip asphalt is a grave to the creatures of the earth. Howling predators pancake them, and scream onward uncaring. Gravity and the infinite vehicles continually plaster bodies to the street until the two are one and the same. Sort of like an asphalt animal gut conglomeration, a dazzling myriad of colors. I think the flattened fur skins give America's roads a nice homely appeal, don't you? Only the TV and the roaring fire are missing. Miles long the graveyard bleeds, and only the human deaths are specially marked for memory. Humans get roses and crosses; their bodies carefully removed. Animals get the beating asphalt: their pained fearful eyes are their monument, a tire imprint marks their deaths. Accidents in time. So the next time you drive a car on the long and winding road, tip your hat to the forgotten critters who continually give their lives for our transportation, not to mention our vast-but-bleak entertainment.

The Dusty Soul

Uncaring of health,
A soul sits on a shelf,
Dusty and forlorn.

It waits to be read,
By an outcast head,
Whose loneliness snuffles.

The words it contain,
Will keep a man sane,
In the hard life to come.

They're the kind that befriend,
That generously send,
Contentment into the fold.

For pity's sakes,
For past mistakes,
For rescues in the river.

For life anew,
For a vivacious clue,
For triumph in end.

The Traveler

The traveler has come a long way in the wrong direction, upside down map in hand. He has run out of gas, and his body is broken. The shards struggle to work. His face takes on sorrow as he realizes his error. Setting down his knapsack, he listens to fate’s grin and smells fate’s chuckling rancid breath. A storm swiftly moves close, whipping youth before it. Forsaken and forever lost. The laugher has changed to sighs.

Vegas in the Morning

Vegas in the morning,

The lights much less bright.

A morning sun reflects,

Reveals aged faces,

Banishes corruption.

Vegas in the morning,

Picked wanderers dying for health,

Piecing together a lost evening,

Searching deeply for their smiles.

It’s a cool Vegas morning whose fine hourglass tapers.

Of sleepless casinos and stolen lifeblood.

Of facedown wallets,

Empty, shocked, nauseous,

Hoping for a dream,

In a Vegas morning sunbeam.

Neglectful Loss

I had you in my heart,

The product of my loins.

I lost you in a storming sea,

Your place alarmingly empty.

I searched through the muck,

My trembling hands filthy,

Calling wildly,

Into the caging winds,

For your relieving return.

Only a patchy memory,

Within my subconscious.

Marks your life.

Your body lies in a hidden trash heap,

Of this I am confident,

My prediction overflows.

At the very bottom,

Your ripped face mustard stained,

Unrecognizable,

But for the strange lettering,

Across your zombie breast.

Technological Withdrawal

Minus the circuits

Minus the signals

Minus the wires

Absent transistors resistors

In a war torn future

Cry of a bird

Without subliminal numbers
Screech of the wind

Devoid of the hidden message.

The people’s eyes confused

Within their huts

Ears baffled

Their hearts pounding

Hemorrhaging offbeat

In technological withdrawal.

Faded Life

Glimmers a smile

On the faded dial.

Nostalgic revival

In elegant style.

Goes the extra mile

Thru diseased bile.

Some healthless trial

For a trying while.

Until deathly denial

In a poison vial.