King In His Coffin

The King is in his coffin,
living in state,
And in his coffin, with his crown,
the King will wait.
The King is in his coffin,
issuing dark demands,
and from his coffin, by his whim,
his people bleed their lands.
The King is in his coffin,
and in his coffin, lies,
The king is in his coffin,
and waiting, still, he dies.


The splinter will work its way
through your veins, so they say,
so they say, will swim and crawl
until it pierces your heart’s wall
and spreads a vile poison there or,
to hear the schoolyard’s whispered terror,
will sprout and bloom beneath your skin
and breach and brack and show within
the wood, the sap, the leafy things,
and as you lay, felled;
they’ll count your rings.

The Calm After The Storm

There are moments when the wind has blown and
swept the past away;
moments when the lightning has scorched the corn and
the rain, falling as a thousand silver arrows,
has carelessly harvested the peaches.
The wailing is done and the rains have now passed;
the land is level and wild.
These are moments when all is ruin,
born from no particular wrath;
These are the calm moments,
the trying moments,
where we ask the only meaningful question:

What is worth rebuilding?

The Color In The Wall

The Color in the Wall is crying out,
in long and horrible gasps,
The Color in the Wall is blind and vicious
and on the soul it rasps.
The Color in the Wall is hard to see,
and from town to town it follows me;
The Color in the Wall will soon break free,
but only if I let it be.

Full Of Knives

My brain is a blade begging to be used,
to portion the globe into bite-sized bits.
My body is a blade blunted by labor,
that creaks and yearns to be sharpened;
my tongue is the blade that plunks
through the cheek;
my words are the blades that quiver,
thickened with morning dew.

With A Deft Hand

All skillful hands have an appearance of ease
and leisure; all charming tongues wag with a practiced
unconcern. Jackie Chan and certain vipers both
seem to amble along, bumbling, until with
deft strikes they end a sentence.
The world will illumine this method;
the way a carpenter sets a tongue and groove without
or a factory worker, half-drunk and half-hungover,
can operate a machine for eight hours before
slinking into the crimson streets;
I wish to learn the method of
knowing without thinking and
doing without dying.

The Magic Of Multivitamins

A thousand years of sweat and toil and
tiny sores under the tongue, of stinging in the cheeks.
A thousand more of thin men scraping by in soil and
the well-fed masticating the meek.

We do forget the magic of our everyday,
we do forget so quick,
so clean;
we live void of lingering memory
(no meals to be found in yesterdays)
as plump and ignorant as headless queens,
we live with the magic of multivitamins and
the option to choose – what not to eat –
what ragged ancestor, what sand-sifted shephard
could dare to dream of not eating of meat?
We live with the magic of multivitamins and
tell ourselves others, elsewhere, still scrape by
and we let our food rot in the earth
as thin-limbed foreigners weep,
and die.