fingers and thumbs – unopposed
counting nothing, all bananas
legs and nose

brown eyes, brown hair – feces
flying outward, all the stench
phylum class and species

of this, we all dare
to this we lope, we lounge, we traipse
we march – stomp-click

-stomp-click
-stompclickstompclickstompclick

and this we revere:
a troop, a poop, a cantaloupe, an ear an eye
a nose well-picked

fingers and fingers and fingers and thumbs
the march goes on and we all go numb.

It was, I think, the day of the dead
when we met in the lemondrop sky
whispering the nothings friends whisper
when all the rest just sigh

The dead, they were adoring,
the living cold as hell
and we were friends forever
although we dare not tell.

It was, I think, the day of the dead
when we slipped the chains of hope
Marionettes and puzzled thoughts
regrets all strung on rope

The dead, they were all laughing
the living sobbed and wept
and we were friends forever
and every promise kept

It was, I think, the day of the dead
when we screamed the lies too loud
a harried horror of hoary hell
and we both seemed too proud

The dead, they were aghast
the living ran to hide
and we were friends forever
this can’t be denied.

It was, I think, the day of the dead
when the picnic turned to dust
a hungry hapless melody
of two friends bound in trust

The dead, they were all sleeping
the living dreamt awake
and we were friends forever
words that can not break

It was, I think, the day of the dead
when the grass turned brown and dry
a hellacious howl of winter
wrapped in one silent sigh

The dead, they were adoring
the living never know
and we are friends forever
where ever we might go.

There are monsters worse than the devil,
cold men who eat innocence with colder lies.
I see them with grim lips, tight together,
where a smile hung like wet laundry yesterday.

What of blood? Are they too blind to love
too deaf to help, too broken to save a heart
from breaking like a dozen youth or more
that wept beneath the showers of a late summer
spent in the boyish glee of running, leaping, catching
tackling in the soft lush green grass?

The monsters wear expensive suits and lie
worse than the devil in clean places filled
with the accouterments of perceived power.
I hear them mutter through thin trustless lips
where a aspish smile bites and poisons
all those sad fools who want to believe a man
can be good if not always, maybe sometimes.

What of fame? Are they so wrought of iron
so heavy with their own fatuous foolish nature
they can believe such unsightly strength is real
that comes from the crushing of young hearts?
Let them rust away when the paint of their lies wears off.

There are monsters far worse than the devil,
men without hearts, men with cold hearts, men
with black hearts that beat only to the rhythm of their lust.
I see them with snarled lips peddling and backpedalling
through the nightmare where a smile was.

in the eaves of a white house with black shutters
a pigeon nestled away from the cold breeze
clucks and ruffles and dreams the things that pigeons dream

the eternal swatch of gray above, of gray below
of gray and gray and grayer flows past unnoticed

in the eaves of a white house with black shutters
a squirrel burrows in to the warmer attic searching
gnawing, playing amongst the things a man has left behind

the long shadows grow longer in the long night’s longing
the long long long night flows past unnoticed

in the eaves of a white house with black shutters
nothing matters quite so much as now

i dare not speak of sand
of dusk of loss and moon
i dare not sing of keys
and locks and cries of loon
i dare not wish for water
for youth for love for touch
i dare not want for anything
it’s a sin to want too much

i dare not speak of filth
of stars, of lust and sun
i dare not sing of doors
and games and the things bad men of done
i dare not wish for water
for youth for love for touch
i dare not love anything
it’s a sin to love too much

i dare not speak of sand
of morning, loss or time
i dare not sing of faith
and prayers, or cries or rhymes
i dare not wish for water
for youth for hate for pain
i dare not wish for anything
or i’ll surely go insane.

larry ate a cheetah
joey ate a kid
i only took a sip of tea
and pondered what they did

larry ran a circus
joey ran away
i just watched in silence
as they ran another play

larry was a monster
jimmy half as bad
i was almost worse, I think
i said nothing for the lad

larry snickered ‘handcuffs?’
joey smirked, ‘thanks so much’
i slipped off to die again
my keys upon the hutch

larry ate another
joey ate his kin
i sipped only silence
and that’s cruelest sin.

Knowledge of stars does not float on the ocean
nor the underbelly of a shark
sneering up at the shadows of seals

The rabbit moon is unbolted
as it scatters the hidden path
in plain view of winter’s first ripples.

Sunrise is not a matter of intuition,
whether pale a lemon juice stain on a white shirt
or cruel as a mosquito trapped in amber
light – a shimmering hardness lost
and petrified in the forgotten forests.

The harvest moon bolts the summer
for a smattering of frost along a widening path
leading inexorably toward another year’s end.

Sunset is not a matter of faith,
whether salvation is a magma flow
fifty miles below or a solar flair 50 million miles above
– a quivering softness of song
or the ethereal energy of the unexpected.

Spring will come soon
like the revelation that knowledge is a body, not a ghost
a fire, not a glow
a slow setting into the dark
a regal rise from the dark
a window on the sky and heart,
a divine apocalypse
intuited from the word
deduced from the the body
and revealed in the last memory of the moonlight.

Don’t ask me for proof in matters of faith
unless you want a hearty laugh and a silly poem.

the last thing you need is a friend like me
covered in orange juice, maggots and other things
worse than you’re able to imagine in polite company

a friend like me full of odd ideas about the nature of
breathing, the purpose of a fibula, the destiny of a man
in a black jacket sitting on a jetty in november

me plastered with tracing paper and aspirin
uglier than you want to picture even for a laugh
under a fading moon on a frigid night

that’s the last thing you need, a friend like poison ivy
irritating past the point where you want to rip
off your skin and bathe in rubbing alcohol

I feel the maggots eating away the dead parts
that used to be as much me as my fingers are now.
I am happy they are full. I imagine you watching them eat

a friend like me, with ideas, odd and otherwise,
fermenting until the truth nature of man is revealed
in the awkward nudity of words and impolite heavy breathing.

you, plastered on orange juice and vodka
more beautiful than i want you to be, but still
i take a picture and say something about destiny before I leave.

the last thing i need is a friend like you.

Angels have notoriously bad healthcare,
I don’t mean to get you upset, I’m sure you like angels, everyone does.

Still, it’s a fact.

Their co-pay is outrageous, and they don’t get any sick time,
never mind preventative care.

If you bump into an angel, don’t bring it up, they’re a bore,
a God damned bore,
of the highest magnitude. And don’t ask them about how well they dance
they get pissy about that
more so if you taunt them with pinheads and pretend
like they have the most exciting lives.

they don’t.

grunt-work is grunt-work,
wings or no wings,
even if God is your direct supervisor.

your best bet is to just smile and nod at the holy folk
and move on to the cribbage game with your fat neighbor.

I
Alas the future held in store
divinity, at least in part;
this may be valued so much more —
a break of wave upon a heart.

II
Forgive the past, it has no worth,
though, a weak man it might move;
Divide your heaven from your Earth,
without a fear who disapproves

III
In me, forsake this present’s stain
the second, the minute, the hour flies;
Let go the notions in your brain,
of time when we know love’s the prize.

IV
I’ll weep later, in some future spot
with joy and most tenderly
as all these pains shall be forgot
and only love will dwell in me.

V
As an albatros hangs on gull’s cruel raves,
I will endure what this present sows:
a silent contemplation of the waves
when a violent storm so vicious grows

VI
Alas, in velvet night so deep,
the soft bells of tomorrows toll;
Then on every breeze as I sleep —
I see no future for my soul.