what it means to miss
is to dance
with a certain bellyache,
to be swooned
by the emptiness left over
from distant presence.

desire has corrupted necessity,
and the sanctity
of body as temple
has been violated.
heretics treating
skin as mere vessel
decided to take
everything left to give.

with no plans,
all that’s asked for
is a handing
to grip, or simply feel
for friction, frigid pulses
marching against backdrops 
of tuneless melodies.

hacksaw release/
emotional bloodletting
allows tears to well
in eyes stained
from lack of waking up.

who comes as beauty defined
in listless gestures?
another one
to toss the match,
igniting
fizzle, no bang
nor whimper.

what it all means
is irrelevant to the blogs,
for the gag
makes it hard to speak.

tramvai

my brain stays thrivin’

on all city functions,

train to stoop to stairwell

all in one fluid motion.

commotion of concrete vibrations

delights and shocks systems

damaged by blatant visions

of carefully constructed blight,

propped up behind facades

of propositions posed to lend

helping hands to citizens

needing assistance.

how long must we remain

entangled within tar & steel?

chemical plumes consume me,

the air was tangy this morning,

just another day

in this intersection

of greedy minds

and deep pockets.

wondering what

environmental decay

has done to the brain

allows my eventual demise

to become tangible,

even if for a moment.

i hold it, so fragile,

like a fallen autumn leaf,

ready to crumble

with the slightest pressure,

ready to float

on the lightest breeze.

new seasons
for bleeding out
is upon us.
i assemble
these words to comprehend
the settling dust.

what is mustered up
to fight must be
toiled with, analyzed,
and hung to dry,
aired out
in mourning currents.

the chill running
freely down
my spine cannot be
misinterpreted.
it’s known too well
round these parts,

as an old friend
enduring the winds
of time which have swept
up so many.

collapse into you
in effort to sustain
the fall from grace
impending since
we’d crossed Rubicon,
ascending ourselves
reaching further
for points plotted
on maps
from better times

i’d like to recall,
but its image
appears distorted,
a message scrambled 
in the morning haze,
lost along the commute
somewhere between
parkchester platforms
and fifteen minute preachers
who care not who
pays attention
or reconsiders
god as a figment carried
by those driven
to alternate purpose-

not very much
different
from you and
me as this I
or any other
for that matter.

just another
waiting
for the tangent to unravel.
scrambling for revelation
in our final moments,
wondering what
that’ll be in the context
of history, written
by defeatists
with enough weapons
to turn water
into victory.

consumed by something new,
retracing steps
just to view
this mess from angles
adjacent to
the ones we are used to.

the sum of all reason
is no greater
than the energy
we invest in it.

what’s been told
as truth
since before birth
has caused
enough misery
to make god
doubt itself.

the universal method
of happenstance,
which allegedly created
inner/outer void,
leaves just the right amount 
of wiggle room
to get carried away.

“All I have left
are these poems.”

everything’s fallen
into place, with pain
hinging on delight,
confusing all synapses,
relapse looming
over horizons once clear,
now darkened
with clouds of uncertainty.

Whose master claims us
in this form?
No one knows
an answer valid enough
to explain away
cultivated passivity.

On a ship slowly sinking
it’s every being for themselves,
regardless of age,
gender construct,
or health status.

Perhaps when the flows
begin to melt
we’ll panic,
a collective woe
followed by a sigh
of relief, finally
masses on a similar page,
seizing the pen of a history
previously written
by victors and misters,
often missing
the ideas of women
and darker pigments.

another hope-fueled fever dream,
the sweat I’m drenched
feels like salvation
in the morning wind.