The Waves

All the waters of the world are mingling in the sea,
and rage against the stonework as they clash into the lee.
Do the stones feel much compassion?
Could they regret their role?
Or must beating down the ocean be done without a soul?
It is not for the ocean to wonder after rocks;
The ocean’s duty is to rage,
to rage, and level out.

Ghost In The Walls

Waiting,
Wailing,
Weeping,
Watching,
much and more was wasted here,
the meat all gone to moulder.
No more dreams to feed on here,
no coals left to smolder.
I have been dead for far too long,
far longer than I lived.
I focus on that one good day –
that shimmer in the sieve –
and at the hour when the moon looks down
the world admires her horrid frown;
I laugh and shriek and scratch my arms and
try to think up greater harms and
outside, outside, the snow lay silent
streetlights whisper:
the dead riot.

Heroes

Nations are built on the bones of their heroes,
who rage as they’re pushed to the grave;
with shrieking,
and striking,
and choking on earth
all before the foundation is laid.

Said the man at the fore of the black-banded crowd,
“I imagine it’s lovely to die as a hero,
draped by a star-spangled shroud.”

Time Capsule

Place in here your frowns, your worries,
your rotten teeth and sour ideals;
Place in here your fledgling rhymes,
your thoughts of the world,
your idea of ‘unique’,
your expectations, your goals;
Place in here the ones you love, now,
and the stupid lusts you’re mistaking for love;
Place in here your friends of convenience,
your favorites-by-default,
Place in here all these things and more.

When you open the capsule,
many years from now,
you will surely smile.

blue, yellow, green, red

the calendar is marked with dots and slashes –
blue, yellow, green –
for good days, for pills taken and
exercises, experiments and
scribbled-in a delicate hand-
the titles of novels by dead men.

and the calendar is cursed with crimson cruciform –
red, red, red, red,
thickly splashing through the walls, a
low tide that strands all ships. Red for the bottle,
red for the pipe, red for thoughts that repeat and
repeat and repeat to their nightmare logic;

the months are splashed with red, yes,
but blue, yellow, and green make their homes in these days
as well. Perhaps not today.
But perhaps tomorrow.