Rumblings in the Ether

Just wandering.
Words spill out sometimes.

fix me Father.

I want to hold you in my bones

I don’t get it anymore.

I’m tired.

It’s cold.

And I miss you.


there’s a crack in the tiles.

they thought it was history.

it was your history

with an internal discord

a mad madness, described
(prescribed) and so treated,

so well contained for such a searching,

ingracious generation.

what a wasteland, our inheritance.

you and I.

what an earth we’ve gained.

an eternity of indifference,

and the most enthused of apathies,

and all our cobwebs are tossed in the wash together,

but they only bleed and come out tangled.

we’re a nation of unnecessity,

safely strained to find security.

we laugh at nothing, because there’s

nothing at which to laugh.

maybe you’re wild-haired and hopeful. but hope’s left me.

or I can’t really remember its last name.

last known name

"Again?" Said the Earth




by the skin

in the interwoveninterlocking

of existential moaning (we humans, it’s our

blood type) we call truth.


You don’t fool me (I can onlybarely

fool myself, but

then again.

What? do I know?)

Known is

is not is


Relatively so.


Why should I care?



That doesn’t Truth.

                                          Tell me? Please?

Why do my friends suffer?

Is it gravity that makes it so hard to?

Stay. Please.

The moon’s been red(itfrightensme)


How do you manage it?

How do you lift your head?

How do you beam with a glow,

Emanating from all these mirrors.

Might I be a mirror too,

And might I be a unique one?

Might I be a cracked one

To display the facets of your face

At which you never really dared to look?

I don’t know if I always want to be a mirror,

But though rose-colored glasses are impractical,

Soot covered lenses are useless.

dust bowl

All this dirt hurts.

I don’t know where all this

dust comes from but it

catches in all my webs

and trembling, creeping

slivening into my deep.

I don’t know where all this

Mud comes from but it’s

washing through my tears

clogging my arteries and

covering my face.

All this earth is swallowing me

Where did the rains go?

I’ve forgotten what clean air tastes like.

Your photograph is smeared,

And the glass is broken,

And I can’t remember how I got here.


An observer

An observation of the infinity of

regret seeing not touching

hearing with the tip of the tongue

slathered in a paste of sweet cynicism sweet forboding




I’m an observer - the ladies aren’t so sweet nor the men so gentle, with their fitted ties and laces. Time -









I guess

I’m an escapist

but that wasn’t supposed

to happen I’m sorry

I’m sorry I’m so sorry

every thing tastes so bitter and

sour sweetly

mocking - despairing

I wanted - I lost

I wanted too much with too little


I thought and thought

and then I died a little.

I once knew a boy who wanted a

draft, but there was no war.

The peace was maddening.

There were not pipes or trumpets to blow.

So it goes.

But he had the nightmares of a soldier and a horn under his arm and a banner over his head

that fell across his shoulders.

I’ll be a free one.

You can carve an “x” in my chest with your head tilted Westward and your left hand just so.

So it goes.

But I’ll be a free one.

I hope you’ll be one too.

With feathers in your own color and a banner over your head with a pipe and a trumpet to proclaim your victories.

I’ll write poems that scream

and words that are just slightly slanted.

But I won’t do nothing.

Hell no.

I’ll blow my own trumpet and I’ll be a free one.

But my feathers. They all fell off

when you died in me.