Burying Violent Gifts

In the room I heard screams that
suppressed flashes neatly amplified;
while around me there were walls
that clenched fists pounding, justified,
the horror not seen
and the mirrors not yet broken
or sniffed off of,
framed in stages
for tongues, bitten,
never to be swallowed
or even allowed to feel numb.

For in blood there were lands
built in brick and laid with mortar
that had stayed to belay the sands
that time forever altered,
but did not at all coagulate.

As you stood against the enemy,
in space between poles;
It matters not how we
remember our memories;
They are ours
and in testimony:
(don’t act like you don’t speak in veiled religious overtones)
Oh, father! why has thou forsaken me
with the violence on your hands?
Bar Abbas–the son of god
and the thief you call deity
is real to me
because I stole my own soul.
And I remember so much that without much
you still can’t touch
parallel lines
with equilateral triangles.

So get down, for the love of life man.
That’s a line on your living
feeling more like a nightmare.
And, in time there will be options
and they will be as such;
and should there be trials,
there will be no such luck.
Face not your soul avenging
for something that didn’t matter
what he, she, or it had not done.
and after we all get down,
you best get up and run.
Cuz, there isn’t anything like this;
there is no precedent
each moment continuing
here and now;
life is all about slowing down.
so that you don’t have to think anything more than:
now you are dead
very fast.


Dead Authors for Tulip

Had there been any confrontation between
Your lies and your morality
There might have been something said
Or done
That you
Could have said
Or done
That wouldn’t have been taken from someone else
In another form
In another time
In another place
But your face
Can not reconcile
Lying down
With the stiff backed repose
Of morality you call
Your creative impulse
And it is an insult
That will not be forgiven
As you weave another tale
From the deception
That you
And all others like you
Play upon the the rest of us;
That you matter because you are creative
You are not creative
You are merely relatable
And lacking any confrontation
To the sunny estuaries of fiction
You call art
You will always be coming up with new ways
To say that good is bad
And bad is good
And that exorcised demons
Mean something
They don’t
But then again they do
And it’s all over now
Baby blue