Last night upon exit, the shadow men were shouting orders. Breaking through the winter bone of the earth with light fractures and steel utility.


I awoke with a sand scraped face, grit in palms, great stink of fear.

writing is merely
squinting
fingers crossed
head cocked
cuttings like red tape
threaded notebook scrap
bread for pudding

The is a woman lingering in the atrium.

Light exclusively for smoking
jaded brand of delirium
wisps of Grey consuming
retreating into the devouring
escape upwards
gone

end of evening
is obscene
mind burning
on low deep aggression
numb
while the body is defenseless
warm
eyes obsessed by shape and forms
roughened

all dreams are implicitly shoved
aside
and my voice is incoherent
rambling to a mirror
echoes in a dark dismal tunnel

all sweet fond desires
are wrought by the days
deliveries
and smiles are disguise
for the blank stare

Blue man
grey paper cotton
sweaty collared shirt
Red lady
sleek on time
high walking

My funny resting
place is in
my car
and I sleep
but I dream
of work
and wake with
the stir of lateness
somehow it wasn't
done (not alone)

What of the world
under covers
when the curtain of our
eyes conceal the stage
in the purple blue
black of the dark
infantile again
floating mysterious
womb of dream
pitching seas edge
while the giant cold contenders
buckle with weight
and heave load
and bellow foghorn
latecoming
when waking the festering mind
the stretch of
stark grey and
shifting souls
lost drawn
whose passions
have seized
long bleached
worry worn
with pits of eyes
that reflect nothing
caverns of solitude
which no exit
or entrance is hoped for
the mass costumed
in rust, stiff cloth
many in veil of black
ladies, chin to their breast
enrobed in fading silk
like wilting petals
and vitality is questionable
men, whose shoulders drop
and hands hang to
no base
scrape tough feet
and step with no
pride
the children of these
sensing the strife
whimper and squeeze
tight their eyes
sing unwrit song
and fidget with whats found
consider all imaginings
to escape the plough

all inaction
are thoughts displaced
attraction leaning
for designs fruition

I yearn for
consuming ocean sea
in pitch roaring
day's end
hurling towering waves
upon slow sinking earth
that slides beneath my
soles, between parting
fingers
moving me

In the dark gaping night
I am absorbed
in company of silent parts
broken shells
precious stones
my deep course
hair entangled with brine
locks of sea harvested
to dry
within my breast
the low rolling hum
whispering chant of
the fluid body
in the great space of
the night,
a titan in the void