Will You Face Down That Final Moment?

the world's machinations were
never geared to the correct ratio,
(a) certain or otherwise, for
tin tacked onto the piggy-backed
dialectic that will follow you to the grave
is one final lost argument after the rage
from your tear basted heart burst
of fearful regret and convictions reneged

A Good Read

I love to own books

but so much more than that
I adore it when those
indexed tables of content
are turned

and books possess me

When They Die In Their Sleep It Scares You Half To Death

deep in dominion of the dying, between
the second and third heart congesting hours,
look into the darkest glass
naked , dishevelled and dare to ask
for answers you think you deserve
expect no reply but know
that bub black beast sees you now
and for you alone will reserve and release
through execrable years of fearful, fitful non-sleep
its furious horror

For All Man’s Glory He Is Nothing But Dust

dropped

behind the golden masked
rocked star, 60,000 000 ton ego of
trumpet blowing soul diggers

remains a parchment skinned
carapace
no more no less

in four months time I will be fifty
a full half century
if I remain that lucky

Gene, I, Us?

what is the alchemy that urges one (wo)man’s words
to sail and rise while another's barely crawl?
that lightning bottled virtuosity where one can
converse directly with the gods while us others,
with abstruse art but happy to play tongues,
say little at all

Shotgun

was it ever for love
or a marriage of biology?
her country daddy played
a Smith and Wesson serenade
that kinda focused the mind
in somewhat of a hurry

Beware of Trains

it lies separate
that canvas, that shock of skin,
with pained frozen grimace
worn as eternal etched surprise
from an instant of agony
the kinetic consequence
of unsurrendered steel against
brittle hegemony

it flaps apart
a hundred yards hence
from spine and viscera
that bound it as one
with fibrous tendons splayed
in vain like stretching fingers
desperate to reclaim
foolishly shed raiments