Abstract Suspect

There’s a guttural feeling beneath the calumet

A grinding halt to the ritual

Smiles hasten into frowns

And I feel bad for the one that pushed the bell

There’s a howling suspicion in the wind

A fading superstition that lingers in

Laissez-faire or Bourgeoisie,

Accommodations of catastrophe

Serendipitous dilemmas and

Sanctions breaking down,

By the sharks of this town, inflicting…

Surface wounds and

Surfeit shells,

Discrepancies and songs,

Songs we’ve got to know, ills we’ve learned all too well

Syncopation, spin and spin

Whiskey, Rye, Tonic, Gin and Gin

Serengeti nights be told, of the hours spent in a Saharan cold—broken for feverish decals, labeled carelessly on the backs of rickshaws, spider-webs and dropouts from bartender schools that advertise in the back of free papers you find at late night taco shops or seedy, shady, drowsed out jazz clubs—

Never acknowledge those that deliver the news

Sometimes they’re the devil in the messenger’s shoes

And sometimes they’re simply the leftovers that the cat dragged out…that someone else has yet been buried in the correct position, currently vacant, way out in left field.

SIN

SKIN

SINking

In

Abstract

Suspect

Outtake From the Block Files (Masquerader)

Didn't really have the time to write poetry today, so I'll revisit the Outtakes once again.

Masquerade

Illusions

Conquistadors

Of the metaphysical

Vouch for thee

Macabre

Daughters

Of the dancing appellation

Courting

Tomorrow’s rapture

Cloaked vixens

Feverishly pick

Cherrie-blossoms

Along the banks

Of frigid cricks

Removal of the veil

Reveals Neighbors that you know—

Yet never again will see the same 

Forgotten Elegies

Candor spits upon

Darkest, deadly wrongs

Inducing the safest quays

Through pirouetting spells

         And all would work so well

         If but the spin hadn’t spun

Betrayal’s pivoted grin

An opening for

The awakening of triggers in

Pungent whiskered growls

Hunting in our sleep

Uncovering secrets buried

-Those burdens we all keep

Underneath and deep below

The many layers we’ve built onto

Yet despite our blind eye closed

Forgotten elegies still play

Their mournful, melancholic suites of song

Epitaph

In this place

Lost to all sights and significance

Dormant are the blissful accessories

Of light and sound,

Devoid of all its transcendental majesty

An avalanche is breached, we get a glimpse within

Its systems, its programs, its flowchart of organizational wisdom

But a tale is never spun

Not a single story is ever told

Leaving the observing with a hollow, breaking sound

Much has been courted with

Elements and conjugation of principles

Symbolic restitution of decades old relevance

Blaspheme do the historians commit

Unearthing a cacophony of the non-relational

The inappropriate congregations between valley and peak

Brilliance is the sculptor

God Particle firmly in hand

A canvass without boundary

Paradise of disenfranchised wasteland

And this I suppose is where we reach that peculiar, self inflicting wound

The peculiarity of the Poet inscribing the words for rest upon his burial tomb,

It is a place where solemn contemplation and deep seeded wisdom freely devour, decidedly roam

Enchanted were the primers, who sacrificed their well being for the benefit of strangers to arrive

Non predictable centuries since he lay long since cold,

The truest of poet needs to share, despite his ripping desire to withhold,

For this man, and perhaps this man alone,

Carve he would that single piece, his song he withheld

Yet so much it needed to be heard,

So upon his sarcophagus he would construct,

In this place, this stone shall, once and for all eternity,

Preserve the outline of the man he truly was,

Instead of laying the foundation,

Predicating the groundwork for a coda,

So superior to anything ever he had penned,

 Instead, listen he would, to the heart strings tugging at quivered hands,

Bleeding sweetly, each motion he could command,

 Upon this easel whose sole significance

Will be to mark a final resting place,

 Each scratch he chiseled fresh

 Could be the last etching from his flesh,

So in conclusion he simply wrote:

I pray this all does end with me, with little praise, without abuse,

 And pray I do, this stone consumes each word I’ve ever used