Portraits - I`A glance:the man scratched his beard that snowedin response to the agitation; smileda greenish-yellow smile that somehowheld a deeper implication than just bad teetheyes that hold a misplaced meaningsquint slightly: connect—and with a wave of hismoth-eaten hand, he's gonewithdrawn into the city's fluid motionbetween the buildings, his homepassed by thousands everyday, unknown:past and present converge every-dayinto one long mobius life, passed-by`
Wild Fall`Over just a few daysthe trees, slowly burstinto flamesa heatless fire, withoutsmoke or crackling cinders,quietly smolderingaway, the green of summerinto those clawing silhouettebones, raking the backlit-skywhite with clouded air,sweeping the blaze beforemy watering eyesto the sea, that sizzlesthe sun, snuffing it into night—the trees still smolder.Through a lightless night,silent, the stars shine abovelow hung clouds, sleeplesslydreaming of the day,when the fires go out& for a time, nothing is leftbut memories of spring,lying in piles of color, waitingto be swept awayforgotten, 'til next yearsinferno, races across the landat a snails pace.Stirred by phoenix songs,I rise again to watchthe forest burn.`
Passage`All this pain and hatelocked inside his brain-boxed head,small and helpless to a childhoodmemory: life—Beyond gray, matter of factblackness seething within, frothinga bloodless hostility, unfocuseduntouched by human hands, yet formedby their actions nonetheless.Walking alone, without the help of hope,driven by a lack of understandingof what he was and was not:hewalks into the crowded station,at the end of the line.looks around at the helpless,lost people with pity and fear.draws out the Christmas presentfrom years ago, blued-cold & loaded.chooses a young girl first, thinksshe looks too sad for her own good.squeezes the precisely ground,finger-shaped curve.feels the wrist-snapping backlashrun up his nerves, relieved.watches the looks, hears the screamsas the demons are exposed on 9mm film.Bodies and shellstinkle to the ground,echo off concrete-graffitiinto a brain-boxed head.`
As Promised-in my windowthere aren't any wormswoodpecker-
Split`only a moment agoI held you close, sharingall of me, like lovers doone last kissa touch that slips awaylike time, stolen by circumstancenothing can come between usbut the minute, that secondwe have to part—once and alwaysnot was, but is nowthis need, this hungerthat rumbles withinshaking those hardened heart-wallscrumbling the built-up barriersasunder, into dust of the pastnow it rumbles for the othera constant thunder, resoundingechoing the emptiness, the otheralways fillsthe world crashes all around usto fill the void left behind,all the comfort we enjoyedonly a moment ago, now a memory`
A low slung sun`A low slung sun, the tide of winterretreating with a colourful regaliaof leaf-shaped sailing ships, blownby a North wind sweeping low, weepinginto newly bare-branch hands. barely peeking over my neighbors fence— the sunriseThe sad sky blues a one-four-five,deepening into that summerless groove,jet-streamed smooth & shaped in streaks—cirrusly in need of an audience, to applaudthat fall-song dirge of slow-death tones.