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.

They huddle up
like any troop of monkeys
before the ice.

Voices hushed,
they whisper under the thick wind
– is this how we shall die
penniless and in want
of justice?

when the blues step in
to command their hearts to beat
more slowly, the heat
grows, the voices
become as a storm.

The austere violence of hope
sings out from smoky ignorance
a song of selfless self.

“Away, away,” a people becomes a person
they weep together
as they fall apart.

falling from anywhere
landing in a multitude of same
white as white, even whiter
laying silent, waiting
to melt away to nothing
understanding only wind
and the voice of cold
across the vast expanse
– is this hate
or how we forget
everything that matters?

of fluffing skirt, of watermelon, of tweezer, cherry, and of crow,
the raging damage of sunblock on the days we hardly know
of waterfilter, of posh foie gras, of scissor, apple and The FIX,
the mild bothers of a chipmunk on a sunny stone out there turning trix
of sparkling gem, of dead bloodhound, as sleezy cherry smokes a bone
the wild rush of bike heat, then you call my bluff, so I crank one out alone.
of fluffing hard, of moaning loud, of waxing cheery swell of lip
the raging raucous grunting with a strong hand on your hip
of water sports, of porsche’s pass, of razor, sharp and quick
the flying push, the chipmunk squeal, the skin all hot and slick
Oh come to me, my pretty one, eat, then let us drink some more
be the poem, the novel one, the angel, saint and whore