The Walking Stick

It stuck out of the ground like a cross,
(maybe that's where he's buried?)
up to my head, barely moved with the coarse wind,
all the trees were naked, brittle, breakable with my palms,
gripping the stick it pricked me and I bled,
yanking, pulling, moving the mound of earth,
sweat dripped while the winter gales rumbled,
lifting it inch by inch as it clung to the soil with angst, purpose,
I cringed from the pain, fled to the empty blue mattress above,
it didn't want to leave, afraid of the outside,
wishing to be forever dug into this grave,
(eventually we're all moved)
thrown into a patch of dead leaves with the stick in my hand,
chest rising and falling like a tired tide,
a few red dots leaked onto the ground,
(nourishment for the past)
it helped me to my feet, offered me something to lean on,
with it I continued up the mountain,
a hapless smile broke across my dried lips,
thinking I may have found a friend.

Moonlight Watz

You've been staring at the same shadow for hours, yet nothing comes,
sleep evades you like a fly swirling around your hazy eyes, never landing,
You've tried to sink into heavy words, but you're still emerging,
so you've resolved to peering into that blackness on the wall.

You're not afraid of the abyss, sloshing images like a washing machine,
it'll seem large with it's million question marked body, but it's as hallow as a ghost,
the most it can do is make you view the past through a small hole,
You've examined all the faults weighing you down, there's nothing but paper airplanes left.

Stretching endlessly under the sun are stone steps,
you've stated to walk, but can't make any headway,
someone is wandering ahead, calling you, you can only make out her hand waving,
you try to increase your speed, but she is always straying away from you,
after hours of trying to chase her, you've decided to take in the sights,
with the heavy sun lying on your forehead, you can't help but smile.

Dreaming of the other side

The branches begin to shed their robust aging locks,

a stillness as if dead,

creeping clouds clues to some motion,

a mast setting sail eastward the lone vessel in the sea,

the rocking waters rumbling with a lion's roar

snoring while the pale coin twirls with the stars,

sprinkles of salt on the concrete making it crack,

a low moan of tires waning,

a whisper of wind against the brisk pane,

a stifling chill creating goosebumps,

restless night.

Still Staring

I’ve stared at this purple mirror before

tugging at the fretted pieces of hair still straddling my sweater

(the brisk cold is too much for just a shirt)

different lengths and colors, from different times,

leaning carelessly on another balcony always looking down

then up at the frugal dusty lamps posing as stars along the tenebrous sky

awaiting the eyes, those carnivorous pupils that follow me in the dark,

waiting for them to reappear to make me shiver,

you’ve probably felt this shudder before, but call it something else,

it isn’t the same, no, and never will be,

my hungry gaze will stay still till the rippling waves cease,

hopefully before the first piercing explosion of the sun,

though, I'm not sure if I’ll last.

Wake up call

movement, a funneling whirlpool swirling out my ears,

brisk yellow fingers trickle just over stretching trees,

sharp cut of light swaying on the rooftop,

gentle twitter of leaves waving,

awakening to an old dream,

the touch of my palm feels unreal,

brushing the indents to read my past,

maybe I can go back for a few more seconds.

Drinking Milky Midnights

I’m drinking milky midnights from a bottomless glass

                pass those star shots across the muddy counter

                last time gettin’ jiggy with anything was cool was the 90’s

                harassing blind men half your age to dream a better dream.

I’m sauntering along concrete steps while shadows dance with the moon

                soon our legs will falter and crash to the ground

                crooning melodies our forefathers mouthed during the war

                swooning over plastic memories painted on the drunken walls.

We’re hunched over a deserted bench waiting for the bus to never come

laughing at all the scenes we’ll recall years beyond this sun.

Dry me in the rain

Sky stuffed with stifling grey clumps

Conspiring eyeing my open hands

Mind too fuddled for an

Umbrella morning

Sniffing moisture like a fresh breakfast

Passing signals blinking

From the sudden fall

A sibilant rush of rain

Water mirage

Faces from before

Blurring the foggy windows

The doors slide open at my stop

I willingly wash out my mind.