What of small birds too slow to find the sun?
Do they fly, or wait feathered in chill of nest?
Wisdom says nothing of them
because they do not dream.

What of tall mountains too rough to know love?
Do they stand, or crumble in long snows?
Foolishness is silent on their craggy side
because fear and longing become them.

What of grains of sand too small to be the world?
Do they sink, or roll the briny shallow of banal shore?
Man says nothing of them
because they do not believe.

No, I am no angel, I am a whore.
I promise you, I have a price.
I wish I had dignity, but I can’t claim such a thing.
I know that I can be replaced;

You, though, are above all price,
you are kind and wondrous celestial –
the holy creature of dignity.

Where I am a man
of mere relative worth,
envying the holy you,
you are the being of intrinsic worth

my gut tells me there is beauty
somewhere being beautiful
under clouds that do not know my name

i listen for a moment to hear
long hair collapsing into the most now
bright eyes exploding like a bear
Into the smell of rubbish

my gut tells me there is beauty
everywhere being beautiful
in the cold dark where my name means nothing

i look for a moment to see
soft flesh climbing hard flesh toward the almost there
kind fingers scratching like scorpions feet
along the hot dry sand

my gut tells me there is beauty
anywhere being beautiful
on the edge of the world where my name is forgotten

I sing for a moment – your name
your heart beating along the most me
blood flowing like a jellyfish
into the void of the endless depth

a man in a blue blazer
walks under a green awning
in a gray city full of anyones

he looks up at the golden dome
down at the pink bubble gum
across the street at the orange umbrella

a woman in a yellow raincoat
stares back at his red socks
through a gray drizzling fog

she pauses in the white noise
bounces through her blues
a shutters as she gnaws an orange

he turns back to see her brown hair
watches her bite into the orange
then disappears into the gray city

there’s the blank stare
the elevator music of the soul
as we watch them
believe they are people
rising through concrete
to the top of the bottom of the sky

say nothing, if the day is good
It will be better in the silence
If the day is bad, let it be so
Unrevealed by words.

there’s the lips mouthing prayers
the secular beseeching of the heart
as we listen to them
believe they are people
riding the carriage through the steel
to the bottom of the top of the world

say nothing, if the people are good
It is better they are rewarded with silence
if they people are bad, let them be so
with provoking their rage.

People dancing without rhythm or rhyme
blank stares upon a concrete stage
empty flesh of rage wallowing in time

old clothes in tatters, wearing grime
minds on matters that become a cage
People dancing without rhythm or rhyme

What of joy, of dreams, of verse sublime?
Caustic envy is the definition of this age
an empty flesh of rage wallowing in time

The hollow madness coined in every dime
The shallow prayers of each unholy sage
People dancing without rhythm or rhyme

Oppression’s voice – the unwitnessed crime
jotted quickly on the blank page –
the empty flesh of rage wallowing in time

Oh Kindness, what words are lost in our climb
from madness to the madness of a living wage
People dancing without rhythm or rhyme
empty flesh of rage wallowing in time

people in taupe
blending in
with eggs and flour
become chicken
white breaded – spice
less – taste
less – thought
less – wine

becoming dinner
after dinner
unsweetened – un
shackled at tables
bald – brittle – gaunt
glazed eyes see
ing nothing

whineless, thoughtless
tasteless, spiceless
dreaded white
become cowards

flowers and legs
with people
in taupe
blending in.

goodbye is more sure than love
ink fades, and with it every name
goodbye is more cruel than blissful fading
a night that does not rise with sun

people seem more honest in silence
accusations hang a man with words
when a broken neck might be (truly) sweeter still.

goodbye is hate’s right hand
pigments wither into parchment until
goodbye is the cruel image remembered
a day left behind on a warm seashore.

people are more honest in silence
accusations rape a man with words
when murder might (truly) leave him more free.

i do not count their distance
foot by foot, they stomp
closer to the silly than the grave
but all of them are the coming dead

i do not recount their voices
breath by breath, they cry
silent in cheap pine boxes
but all of them are the nearly dead

i do not solve their problems
sign by sign, they reduce
closer to the dirt than the dust
but all of them are the truly dead

think, i think, but they can not
believe, i imagine, but they will not
love, i say, but they are the weary dead.

i see the sharks
happy in tuxedos
circling the seals
arfing away on the dance floor

this is the feast of the good king
prepared before the even snow
under the starless gray

i see the lion’s
crying without eyes – they are only bones
less white than white
brittle in the coming bright

this is the fast of the dying lord
prepared as the first flakes fall
from the dismal of the darkening day

i see the lambs
angry in dirty t-shirts
baa-ing wildly to the ether
shorn and huddled waiting for the slaughter

this is the last supper of the mad horde
prepared after the shovels were broken
by the first sunrise after.