April night

Once I

Felt warmth at my back, and fell asleep

Peacefully

Thinking, in a moment of late, exhaustion-induced confusion, that it was you.

But sunlight, and morning

Broke the truth

It was only the cat, curled up at my back.

And you are still dead;

You are still dead.

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Lungfuls

Half full of water, lapping

Clogging up my breath

There is a tide inside me.

It’s drowning out my brain… how to breathe?

It’s filling me

Each breath, choking

Sloshing lungs

Am I still asleep?

Not about me

At most, my pain diminishes me

I feel small, I feel nothing

I feel the nothing pulling me in

I know its name, its harmonies well up

They pour out of my eyes and stain my life

At best, the pain underscores the why

Without agony there is no joy.

Reckoning

Someday soon I’ll face my flames; I’ll

Sail the endless, salt-less waves; I’ll

Kill my shadow and hunt her kids; I’ll

Shiver in longing for places I miss; I’ll

Enter the rain-streaked hall where I died.

I’ll spit up the flood and weep out the fire

Each tear-drop a hurricane-blaze of desire

I’ll snarl at my tea-cup friends, singing their songs

I’ll roast up their curly-Q freedoms and toast

Every son-of-a-wanderer, filling their souls

With the cracked black asphalt-crumbles tickling my toes.

Someday soon I’ll drink my fire. I’ll

Let the roamers know I’m for hire. I’ll

Drink from the slate-granite stars, on the fly. I’ll

Let every bone swimming in my blood taste

The sky

We-death

I lose my breath for the ways we wept

Carving our chains from the sorrows we claim

I curse my hands as they build my plans

The coffin sized for me that I lovingly heed

Each step towards my death I shriek as I grin

I cannot stop mourning even as I descend

Why do we not cease all this clamor and doubt?

I know what will save me but I grieve anyhow

We built our own tomb-traps but we gild them and stay!

filling the rooms with silver decay

Floating our corpses in gold-blood and gloom

We’re certain this death will not be the last

We’ve died so many times in the past

gap

Sometimes the greatest poetry…

Rage, silent storm;

Is the absence of any.

The quiet, heavy ladled

Only over the story..

Power un-endowed.

You would tell, but refuse.

Respect me, or I will blow your memory like dust into the wind.

You do not deserve any acknowledgment from my breath.