leaves turning in strange revolutions in the wind in the dark in the night, skittering across all manner of surfaces like things accustomed to such modes of flight, like things articulating themselves only in the absence of witness and bonding to only their own relevance, the hushed tones of their cascading, things bereft of meaning…

spread out before me an ocean of earthbound stars for miles, those stationary, those that rifle down dark highway all alabaster and crimson, solitary among them a wavering flame breathes life into a cigarette that pulses thereafter like a small orange heart rebating not blood nor life but smoke and ash while filling me with…

these hands are not my own, they draw fire from shadow and bring old ways back in to concession, parodies of will, beguilers of want. the drink reveberates in the hollow cavern where once was clarity, but what harm is in it? what injustice derived from lapses in totality? it brings with it old foes…

my sordid company your fellowship awaits. this island moves about me and the waves from the world without refuse to subside, bringing these criminal winds i struggle to recuse. a recluse from the world of others, their thoughts, their griefs, their panic is mine and this island can go no further out before the ocean…

goddamn the words won’t come and the silence is death, the emptiness is murder, the vein is transparent and the night burns slow like a cigarette but the words won’t come, women move away and the sun spits fire, i can feel its reach through and through the earth, the streets are peopled with scarecrows…

sail about this departing night, the hours have formed a mind obeying only the ebb and flow of some greater darkness without. a nightbird has taken my spirit, i watch with tired eyes the tree limbs wake and shudder at her nimble footfall, the cyclone of insects in their desperate attempt to merge with light…

it comes at midnight, the dark drone of lonely hours spills forth from out this soul like so much smoke and you can almost smell the burning. there is mist on the window and in the wet cold written the names of possibles, dirty finger prints and telephone numbers, the hollow wind rattle sucking sound…