by Poetry

I have no song to sing
no tune rises from hard lips
as no pattern emerges
in the dance of this weak flesh
as no pattern emerged
from weaker bones in the wind

I have no song to sing
busy myself with proof
with evidence
in the digging of prisons
in the excavations of our bones
in the study of our wings

I have no song to sing
I shiver in the winter
I am too weak to fly south
I consume the weaker things
to survive the frozen rivers
to survive the snow

I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

I have no song to sing
yet I have witnessed the singers die
leap from heavenly scaffolds
blind into the dark waters
with its promises of fresh life
their tongues swelling
their feathers turned against them
their jaws tear open with the applause
of lidless eyes

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modern poetry

A Cheap Black Rosary

when I wasn’t looking for a teacher
she arrived
with her casual blasphemies
wearing the crucifix between her breasts –
cheap, plywood, & with her sweat
the black dye trickled


Progression will not be found in the holy, the holy, the holy nothing will be found in the holy as we are holy, as we decry the soul is a fingertip of the holy, the holy is not the soul, the soul is man and woman and base and growing and shrivelling and a rotten petal...

The Grand Western

I don’t remember much of the days we spent together, roaming a water’s edge, watching black summer storms rolling in across the ocean; I remember Guitar Hero was my seduction, like clutching buttons too tightly was a sign of things to come;...

If I Were A Carpenter (Dream 5)

Mr. Benson, There’s a tragedie to those singer-songwriters who whine into a microphone with great art and mutter of love in clever rhyme and never really know what it is. They agree with their predecessors, maybe with a modern twang, and try to crucify their hearts on...