The flow between the swift and high,
in slips, and steps, and slides, together,
make this a feast for those who yearn
to taste the thumping force they weather;
dancing through the dash of storms,
wherein the thrawls of crimson valor,
name themselves as Kings, as Queens,
as Gods to those who tap and stagger.



Imagine it.
And imagine then that’s all you had;
a slither of reality –
no. Ideality. –
existing only inbetween
material connections,
like sequencing the static,
making messages of snowstorms,
reading not between the lines
but all the edges of your letters,
drawn out to both confess and hide
and seek and lie and whisper
halve truths, whole truths,
broken thoughts and details,
alluding to a truer you
that once you knew;
at once, outgrew.


Give over to the soul who tolls,
and steals you from the sandy tower,
rings hard and true on every hour,
demanding that you give again.

Give everything you had reserved
for dire needs and empty shelves,
and spill it bare upon the floor,
to be adored, to long for more.

Give in and let it drag you far
and low beneath the peak and crest.
Come rest where memories bury deep,
where waters take and give you sleep.

Just so

Is it any wonder how
the lesser now at best allows
a sense so dense that sheets feel tense,
and heavy on the belly of the everyday disguise
that rumbles with a hunger, and sends tumbling his eyes,
lolled about and rolled throughout the wetness of his mind,
a blind grind, spit n’ shined disgusting kind of kind
that doesn’t know it’s mocking as it’s fucking from behind;
it’s as designed, it’s as designed,
the better the devil you know,
lest find yourself accomplishing transcendence from ‘just so’.


The trick is to have just enough
to rouse the raw, and rest the rough,
and hold, and hold, and keep it fed,
lest wake the rested, festered dread
that bends the heavy bottom shelf –
it waits for me to less my health –
and not but fifty feet from here,
the train blares high (and low) in fear
of lost, of poor, of tired souls
who head, who sink, who long for