The Foundations

It’s all

crumbling.

We ignored the cracks,

now rebar whines

somewhere deep inside,

and the foundations begin

to groan.

 

A cloud crosses

before the moon,

and I wonder how close

Hati is to him now.

Someday he’ll be caught.

The wolf will

devour

the moon,

in the end.

 

Even the music

has faded.

Each note blurs into

the next,

as they all rush past,

without notice.

 

Everything reeks of mildew

and rot.

Neglect.

I hear crows

in the distance,

and the foundations

groan louder.

 

It’s time to wake up,

dear ones,

or we’re lost.

 

5-12-19

Advertisements

Cultural Graveyard

The roiling masses

scoop ashes of yesterday

into purses of gold,

as they crawl through fog

unaware of its caustic fumes.

 

The scent of lavender

and a glint of emerald light

sneak out from cracked-stone monuments

to dead and misplaced dreams.

 

In the distance

A low wail begins.

 

3-21-19

 

A Haunted Imago

You seep through my veins

and my mask shifts to accomodate.

The past is swollen, bloated,

yet they worship it,

so we hide in alleyways

surrounded by decaying things–

A haunted Imago,

and misshapen wings.

 

3-21-19

 

Night has Fallen

A cradle lay abandoned

in a darkening room,

as one by one a dozen candles

expire near a forgotten shrine.

 

A bird of prey

perches atop a barren olive branch–

Lord of a dying habitat.

Night has fallen.

 

3-21-19

The Liar

Silver-tongued duplicity,

Through languid eyes

Pretend to see.

False confessor,

Plastic friend–

Illusions fade,

Your game will end.

 

02-19-10

A View from Below

A View from Below

Checkerboards upon the sky
And butterflies behind cold eyes,
A million shards, the shattered souls,
Through mist gaze up from secret holes.

A whisper trapped inside the glass,
A star that shines in rotten cask–
Empty the vessel, pour in the truth:
You are the fly, but the web’s in you.

3-4-2019

One Day You’ll Wake

One day you’ll wake,

And it’ll all be gone.

You’ll feel like either you,

Or the world,

Has become alien.

 

Flags will still wave

On the tops of their poles,

Like patriotic cocktail decorations

For giants.

They’ll mean nothing though,

By then.

 

Selfies, politics, cats,

And disasters

Will continue to roll through your

Feeds,

But for once you’ll have lost

Your appetite.

 

The stores will be open,

People will have barbeques

And Super Bowl parties,

But they’ll have nothing,

Not really.

 

It’ll happen,

In time,

To most of you,

You’ll wake to see this

Stark truth,

But by then it will be

Too late,

If it isn’t already.

 

You’ll tear your hair out

Wondering how.

How could we have all

Let this happen?

 

But we will,

We did,

And we are,

Because even when we

Allow ourselves

To think of it,

We don’t think very far,

To what “can’t be”

Because it’s just

Too bad,

But somehow

Still is.

 

The end won’t come

Announced on CNN,

The New York Times,

Or the Huffington post.

They’ll still be shouting

Their warnings

Unaware.

 

The media will be

Frozen,

Stuck in a traumatic repetition

Of their warnings,

Unable to accept

That they were ignored,

While ignoring the nightmare

That surrounds them.

 

You’ll see.

It’ll all be gone.

Everything that matters,

Everything needed to

Sustain our humanity,

Will just be

Gone.

 

But you’ll still be here.

Awake.

Aware.

Maybe that’s

The worst part of all.

 

12-17-2018

 

 

 

Out of Reach

How can something

Be so close,

As close as my own

Breath,

And still remain

Unattainable?

 

 

I reach,

I stretch,

It’s all around me,

Everywhere,

But I cannot grab hold

Of it.

 

 

The scent of it

Fills me,

Disorients

And confuses me,

Because it is.

 

 

It’s in the smell

Of fresh bread

Drifting from the bakery,

Lazily engulfing me.

 

 

It’s in exhaust

Thrown in thick clouds

From the tailpipes of cars

Working overtime

In the cold.

 

 

It’s the smell of a caramel macchiato

Mingling

With that of too many bodies

Packed tight

Inside a large mobile

Metal box.

 

 

In the stomach threatening

Inevitability

Of whole shops choked

With artificial cinnamon

And pine,

It’s there.

 

 

It’s amid

The mad-dash rush

Of consumerism,

Filling stockings

And emptying wallets.

 

 

It’s in the calls and the ringing

Of the bell-ringers,

Standing in the snow

For charity

Outside over-priced

Department stores,

And everything their presence

Represents.

 

 

All of these things pronounce it,

Over megaphones,

Loudspeakers,

And chipper music

Piped in for the

Holidays.

 

 

Yet I can’t find it

Anywhere.

I feel like a

Blindfolded fool,

Stumbling this way and that

Inside a round room,

Eternally searching

For a corner

In which

To sit.

 

12-17-2018

Humanity

Locked doors

barred tight

danger lurks

beyond sight

“progress” kills

nuclear war

oldest profession

that of a

whore.

2002

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑