Ecliptic Sacraments

•December 5, 2016 • 5 Comments

We’re all waiting to live,

but we die each moment

that we wait for more; a

catalyst for evidence, we

sway in the breeze of a

sleepy ocean, cutthroat

like a pirate, drunken on

the spiced rum of the blood

of evidence that our ship

still hasn’t sailed, sunken

in the crease of momentary

passive monuments, smell

the salty pleasure, a bonus

to our effervescence, our

lasting call, a flag posted

for threats, for scare, for

more, we wade through

the water, waist deep in

corrupt missives, smelt

and collapsed, the backs

of our enemies fine planks

towards the horizon; we

reach each moment in

a casted sun, burnt by

our fervor and loved by

those in contempt, one

with one, we, too, as one,

and our hammer strong like

our father’s back, carrying

wood each morning; sweaty

and beautiful, like each

moment we breathe each

other in; bounty and treasure,

a sated desire borne of lust.

On Visiting Harding’s Temporary Tomb

•November 23, 2016 • Leave a Comment

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Crypts of dead president’s smell like

musty mornings in a book loft; my

reaction to his death never mattered;

a martyr, a murderer, no difference;

but, there, with her, I stood alight in

the daring past, gulping the air like

a fish returned to water, trying, in a

way, to find a ghost; a scheme I sell

and don’t buy; but I would’ve let it,

that day, in that way, appear for one

moment, to shake me awake, rile and

rival me, indentured to it’s gaze, it’s

wake: an ocean disturbed, madness

succumbed, a dark, transient wonder,

lapsed in the carpet of time, sealed

inside a memorial, cinder and earthen,

a shadow of water washed walls, more

than one man enters, but nothing to

want more, even if I bet and pleaded

to the sky almighty, simply a collection

of garden tools, and grave flags impure;

I still took a picture, even if to dream.

 

In my home town of Marion, OH. I went in when they accidentally left the gate unlocked.

Boarding House; 1913

•November 16, 2016 • Leave a Comment

In a magical genuflection,

a boarder re-flamed a bundle

of wood, so smooth, so

harsh, sitting above all else in a

modern world, and he pained

for the old days, but the

cold wind never hurt

anymore, perhaps it’s the

beard he grows now, or his

lack of amiable care, but

when the snow begins to

fall so quietly among men,

he buries his heart in each

deep ridge, only combed

over by gentle rakes and

hobos drunk on gin; rebel

scouts seeking a renegade

heart; but a passing squall

never hears his cry, and the

message froze stiff inside

the bottle, so eternally

scuffed and empty of love, he

flicked the match aloft, flung

and cancerous, black and soot,

and he mouthed each name,

one by one, as he poured his

life into burnt reflection, tears

sizzling with each drip and drop.

Boatswain

•November 14, 2016 • 2 Comments

An odd poem I started working on a few years ago that I’m not sure I’ll finish. The WordPress program won’t let me format it correctly, but this works fine. Enjoy!

 

1.

In a bleary state, the boatswain spoke,

the gall was brash, so his timbre bore,

an uncanny temperance, “it crushed my

heart, and bashed my head; soon the

birds will appear, soon I will lay dead,

and no one will know, or

2.

postulate in

my stead, what happened this morning,

while they lay in their bed, and the salt

sprays pain, and the sun’s giving light

is killing me, and the most important

memory that I had, is

dripping from the

3.

crown of this skull, so I remain castigate,

among a wailing ocean’s breeze, aboard

a sea of treachery, ‘biblical hermaphrodite,’

aghast and un-atoned, waiting alone in

time, for the moment unbridgeable, pain,

elegant death, purposeful relief.

 

I have some chapbooks for sale on Amazon for .99. Check ’em out. Every little but helps a starving artist.

Arm’s Length

•November 11, 2016 • Leave a Comment

In the garden of death, the toll will be paid,

even when a passive flash blows past a

war torn vestment the flowers do bloom,

whether we see or not, the blood drips

through green valleys and across blue

rivers, the ripe and rife always remember

their babies burnt by napalm death, bleed

black this eternal moon, the wyrm burps

up cannons and castes, as Jimmy and John

embrace for the last time, covered in mud,

singled out for anarchy, so let the snow fall,

my beautiful friends, and remember those

lest forgotten, doughboys so proud, men

in drab, entrenched for eternity, what cold

winter the nerves strike dull, but in the

eleventh hour we can finally rest, light up

the sky, and blow the smoke until it swirls,

it’s the last time we cry, until we cry again.

Trading Trains for Planes

•November 10, 2016 • 1 Comment

In a town not so far away,

I remember a night in fall,

away in a fair, my bladder

about to burst, in random

moments for cull and come,

I shatter that time with the

hammer of the lords, a tame

memory by far and a day,

but now it’s like a dream I

had when I was ten, and a

car ran me over and I laughed

at death, and the crashing

sound from the yard wasn’t

a window broken from a

passing bum, and it wasn’t

the memory of a girl drunk,

fighting and writhing in the

grass, and it wasn’t my baby

creams; reruns and a prosperous

valley, comely and shad, perch

and walleye, the taste of Ohio

beer and a face that I love

in hail and harvest, a horse

haws and falls, our domicile

heated with fire, new and

just the smell of us, a brick

through the window of nostalgia,

the milk and honey of life

so true, let’s waltz into the

purple skylight and drink

wine until we throw up; but

when the night sweats and we

look for familiar hands, the

silence will take new shape;

when once a horn erupted and

shook us angry, now the

heat of aviation fuel, contrailing

across the sky does us justice;

we traded trains for planes

and the wine tastes the same:

the morning’s cold lit ablaze

under the thumb of grace.

Happy Halloween!

•October 31, 2016 • Leave a Comment

If you are so inclined, check out one of my darker poetry books this spooky (and quite warm) holiday.

Tribus: Ghosts

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