Lament (v.1)

Who, if not you, will recognize the silent unease that plagues my heart? Silence roams the depths of my tortured chamber and haunts it with doubt. I lay stunned by the shock of your absence amidst my desperate cry of distress and am forced to watch the coils of this lament unwind.

[Birds greedily pluck mercy from my cracked lips + hide wisdom in their beaks]

Fate is a dark angel and deaf to our desperation + doubt. Every first day of school, every kiss goodbye, every kite ever flown you can see in the photographs, when his blonde hair would still curl from the sweat; these are no consolation considering the sweet tinctured sea that swallows the soul so greedily, without remorse.

The light of the soul bears wings and flies from the rotted sockets. How many lives have we lived cloaked in darkness? The soul speaks in silence while I speak in a million tongues and yet, none of them are mine. I’ve gone as far as stealing my prayers from the lips of dead prophets and calling them my own. They fly on one wing, never too far before falling back to the earth.

[Question: If time devours all things, as Ovid once declared, does time have teeth?]

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The Battle of Little Bighorn

It was the summer of the Battle of Little Bighorn.
My brother and I stood on the last stand hill beneath
the shredded prairie sky. We watched the green
fuses of fireflies swell and burn above the sea of
buffalo grass that had swallowed so many soldiers
leaving nothing but bones, dust and echoes.

Through the smoke of my mother’s cigarette I
could see my brother’s pale-faced sadness reflecting
from the blade of his rattling saber. The smell of
sorrow was rising with the moon; counting the dead
among the broken arrows was futile as the ghosts
were already haunting the books of history.

Who were we to live among the birds which wing
this region? Our feathers hadn’t even come in and
it was nearly time to return home. We lived in the
temper of our blown youth and got lost somewhere
between the hatch and disclose. We forged a
crooked path through a savage garden only to fall.

The front lines and the front yards are where the
battles of boys are fought. The everyday last stands
and shipwrecks among gods or ghosts. In the end,
it’s the fatigue of too many false charges and battle
calls that bury us. Beautiful boys and brothers who
fade from front lawns to become the lost echoes of
summers past and lifetimes ago.

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A Question of Why

William Blake is a wretched wick of burnt candle whose light quivers rather than glows. His etchings grind the grains of their subjects into some steel image of permanence. Something he will never be. He is more like the dust he blows from the copper. The word “etch” and the strange corpus he left behind. Engraving nails that spark like stars.

The illuminated ore of Dante.

The shadows mock him; perhaps it is simply the weight of these shadows, created by atmospheric chemistry, that cling like claws to his shackled heart? Dante’s inferno has spiral staircases that lead both up and down and Blake seems to be walking in circles. Neither up nor down, neither heaven nor hell. The curl and the black smoke. When you’ve seen the head of God burst through your window everything else becomes small.


Lost souls. (As opposed of those who have either been found or in the process of being found) Who keeps track or collects them? It must be a tedious job.

Wings bent or misshapen, black as crows and foul.
The mechanical kind of levers and pulleys always
need greasing and re-tooling. Broken springs and
stripped screws. The metal shavings are like snow.

Blake wonders; what kind of wrecked feathers do angels have?

Heaven is full of dark woods and unseen strangers; unmarked graves and the musky hulls of those children conceived in death. It is this eternal fuse which burns Blake to shimmering sadness.

(Somewhere below the grate + the glow)

Blake lives in-between the grate of life and the glow of some divine purpose, which is why Wordsworth called him mad; can anyone linger alone in such rarified air and expect to return without a few menacing teeth marks left as scars?

Blake lives in a state of friction + fiction/
of such wretched disbelief + grim squalor that even shame closes its eyes/
while grinning still at the doomed folly + shipwrecked fate of a man who dares
to deem himself both poet + prophet in such reckless times as these/
times of the deaf + the blind/
of angels + bombs/
of times when grief is but an anchor.

[How many vicious sisters can one man have?]

In the end, it is simply a question of why.

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no. 3

lest the quivering heart
become an arrow
if at all

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One Wing

Fate is a dark angel and deaf to our desperation + doubt.
Every kite ever flown, every first day of school,
the photographs taken when his blonde hair would still curl
are no consolation; considering the sweet tinctured sea that
swallows the soul so brutally + without remorse.

Still, the boy rises with every broken moon,
hovering + helpless while a voice whispers,
“You should land my hummingbird.”

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I’ve been dead for years, splayed
on the flywheel of uncertain tides/

Banished by the gods to iridescent
indifference, a fuse of failure/

Please sign here, in blood for the
bones of yours alone/

The bruises become wings on which
electrified hopes are dashed/

Oh, the terror of the muses that play
only in the minor key/

The screams are tiny comets that burn
through an uncertain sky/

And dissolve or drown in silence.

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Heartbroken birds with broken beaks
orbit the wilting stem/

While the tide arrives, ocean graves
for the broken vow allowed/

Shipwrecked strangers with ghosts
and shackles/

Fountains of fate and futures
left undone/

The smothered sun shines
blind, a lunar shell/

Wrapped in the luxury of
melancholic indifference/

The blessing arrival of absence

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