midnight Kinhin

rivers of the mind,
float me out to Wolfe lake,
on the moon stained waves,
where I can sink to the bottom,
and count the ragged bones of dead men,
bind them up in fishing line,
and throw them on the fire light,
made of crackling flames,
like a heart pounding in a dark city night...

...down the hall now,
of Derbyshire Lodge,
following the abbot,
he looks like Old Olie,
but walks too fast to tell,
but I know where we are going,
hard through the thicket,
of the hammering hospital headaches,
I know where we are going,
past an open grave,
past an old empty stage,
up the mountain,
to see the sage,
who will ask you,
to ask yourself,
the unanswerable question...

pulling for a rapture

a dubious eschatology,
taught by mum's and dad's,
tales of a king's watchful eye,
to keep the children,
from eating cookies before supper,
from having dirty thoughts,
from playing hooky,

injections of fear and self-loathing,
cultist fables of a sudden disappearance,
loved ones gone forever in a moment,
others left to die,
should you choose to not believe,

in a tyrant in the sky,

created by weak men,
angry at their fathers,
who yet longed for their love,
no favour from the one on earth,
so they'll make a new one above,

complexes stacked on top of complexes,
landfills of guilt and resentment,
chicken wire of hateful judgement,
bounded and rusty,
years of seclusion and fractured friendships,
have built an impenetrable immunity to truth,
intelligence, education, creativity and authenticity,

a longing,
a hope,
a way out,
from a cruel world,
the same one created...
for you?
by Him?

I'm sorry I'm confused by your fervent proselytizing,

while you bemoan my casual dress and duress

you shout words of sin and redemption,

but I only hear form and emptiness.

scatter

wind torn,
and unkempt,

slip your cast,
of hardened resignation,

dive into the form,

this rigidity,
this anomaly,
this flow,



hold tight,
for the approaching storm,
tides of unknown pain,
squalls of poisonous rain,

scatter the binding dread,
and drink silver rivers,
pulled by the exploding sun,

you should know by now,
there is no tomorrow.

brokenheartist

it's good to keep it tight with brokenheartists,
fifty bucks a month,
open early to late,
jump ropes,
heavy bags,
worn canvas,
kettle bells,

it's good to break a sweat with brokenheartists,
in a rusty gym,
where ghosts wait between shafts of sunlight,
dust flies and flickers off broken mirrors,

I used to love a brokenheartist,
but she hated her daddy,

sparring hard to the foot-work rhythm,
when the bell rang,
she would catch her breath,
we'd sit together in the dark,
sometimes she'd be crying,
there was no consolation,
packing up,
I would leave and shut the lights,
and she would fly away,
to sleep quietly,
with the pigeons,
in the rafters,

see you in the morning brokenheartist.