Something's Hidden

Away from the wrested stone

A jewel etches its image upon

Juxtaposition

Where it was and what it never could

Be, to fathom’s length, I bestow

Whistled meanderings, delivered far, unto

A crested portico of everlasting sights unknown

The fantasy’s off-balance whereas

The congruency paints vivid premonition

Vacating the probable,

Forever residing

scarcely in-between

Freestyling

Body on an axis, a plane all it’s own—

Vertebrae stacked, aligned,

Proportionate to the space above

And the depths below we hope never shall we know

One arm—let’s call it right—

Up and out, down and in—

Stretched and placed

Cutting through—

     While palm collides

Over coursing, invisibly aligned, the metacarpal shifts, turns, turns, turning,

     All the while returning in, unnerved yet unnoticeably misinformed…it’s only the observant eye, the kind that can catch the ghosts that live between and through the chasms of the breath…bearing a structure;

An angular procession; with pulling tension, culling

All about, contouring what connections

The body feels, as it does, until the cycle

Spurs parallel, another action pushing further,

Away, and out, delaying all that could have and may still become—a semicircular pattern; a crucible undone, leaving only milliseconds before the symbiosis shatters all the ills that never were, yet thought had been, completed sums…Shall we…begin again

HOW many breaths will you choose to take in between?

Firecracker

Firecracker—soda pop—routine quenching of the mortal verb, Blissful bullet-points banter about the pre-pre-lingual pause—submerging aftertaste in the grandeur of the plunge

Addictive trinkets of euphoric punch—punctuating the blistered awakenings found atop the ridges of the bridge—where with it’s carbonated siege, all pleasures are revealed—as possible and real

Shoulder Of The Road

I’m at the shoulder of the road,

Meters past the vibratory bumps,

Inching towards,

Where the wheels and lamps align,

Sidled up, parallel as can be,

Beside the painted lines,

Under the lamps that hang,

And here,

Where gravel and grass unite

I watch the flash of life speed by

The eyes focus as long as they may,

Until either the darkness overtakes the

Landscape, or another pirates my line of sight

The Needle Skips

The same dream, or should we call it a replica,

Burns the ethos of his sleep—Devouring the plagiaristic embers—of comfort, in which the happiness

Has stored, securely, as an incorruptible sheath

Layer upon layers, lies still somehow seep

Through each tier and over the previous, a parallel exists,

To the safe harbors, in which the fears find themselves squelched, amongst the flames that flee the fray

Columns merge with columns fallen,

Once majestic now dull and grey,

Blankets submerge the depths previously kept in submission,

Awakening the collateral—a damage resting silently in place

And to ad nausea, it folds again, and repeats into and upon,

Hovering and towering, enveloping a trance built in patience, embracing the key swallowed by the unconscious deep

Delving far past mortal telemetries,

Protracting what’s left of wisdom…we kneel

As our souls have silently found a place to weep