i have expired to the waiting form of a caterpillar, embossed in this silken repose i await each day on tiny strands of hair, caressing the limbs upon which i tread with thread-like patience in a pre-determined glide toward full bloom. i sleep with a tactile nonchalance, breathing deep the evening hours of this life,…

where is there to be if not sequestered in my bed, bearing this cold night like a burden, giving blackness to the world, erasing what god has put there, removing stars with the ends of my burning fingers. what is there to be if not the observer, watching you go among them far from here,…

long shadows from wind swept trees move like spiders on the pavement, vesperal arachnids pursuing some tender, i smoke with my left hand while the pen in the other hammers out words of iron and steel like a blacksmith on this paper anvil, i am surrounded by flowers that stretch away from the sun, ornaments…

your gentle touch pulls me from sleep like the soft tapping of rain on glass or warm embrace of morning lightfall, your breath a calm wind at the nape of my neck and your lips are then sails that move me far from any earthen shore and all its timid meaning. you smell of honey…

i have become ill with obsession beyond any reasonable measure, a great lapse in sensibility that has left me lacking conviction, muttering powerless incantations hour after timid hour, night after night in this carnival mind that is filled with the lights and attractions of doomed methods, all things undone by the demented gesturing of my…

i watched dusk descend in its western slide a pale gradient from purple to orange between power lines and rooftops and the silhouette of trees and the immediate world before me. the polestar sat dim and remote tethered to the makings of the universe and i wondered when it would burn out and if so…

as you stand on that precipice can you see where it all ends? is there some beacon calling you out there in all that dark? can you tell me what you see? if i could go with you, would you be less afraid? if i could be your son even in the after, would you…

a deep atavistic cold war is growing, in my veins the malevolent conflict of old terrors with new remorse, as if my very nature is enslaved by its own keeper, the talons of my youth, explosions within the battlefields of my drunken heart, in jungle encased in the withered arms of monolithic trees like fossilized…

there is nothing to kill but time so i consider urinating in my neighbor’s front yard, just to see the response it elicits, yet somehow that seems like an event that can only end in my being questioned by authorities and counselors and any manner of delegates sent forth to condemn those like myself back…

have you yet grown tired of these yawning streets, asphalt relics patched and broken and patched again, forlorn highways and endless churches, liquor stores, used cars, the whole of it like a shameless circus show in constant motion yet void of progress, the old citizenry lumbering forth from out their tired estates to march solemn…