Mother, we castrate you in our pursuit

by pounding bells to dictate our march,

no mercy is know in the stiff pounding rhythm

pumping furiously to silence your heartthrob

and to produce, conquer, and consume.

Blinded humanity whose suffering is hidden in the plastic.

The black and white are lines that divide

            cast off the tethers that bind you to I

          ...

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Writing without the drug

is like breathing without lungs,

like drowning as fingertips go numb,

reaching for a ledge to scrawl myself upon.

Unable to grasp a pen,

PJ offers me sanctuary in her songs.

I curl myself up softly in them now and

            again and again I look towards the exit

            and again and again find the hallways blocked by martyrs of myself

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The cold creeps in

To the little places,

Between the toes

Between the fingers

And in the nose.

The cold creeps in

At the expected hours,

Before the snow

Before the sun

While the wind blows.

The cold creeps in

When you least expect it as well,

Beginning with Pentecost

Beginning with the nursery rhyme

Escaping with exhaust.

The cold creeps ...

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I sit in this room

starving rank and mad

and hate them.

The sound of consumption, 

rattle and clang of dish and slop,

tending to the daily,

necessary talk of finance and politic,

the cat mewing for attention.

While I work to understand the

mysteries.

Yet I love them,

Long night soliloquies

mild walks and rides

summer city at midnight

enduring the ages...

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Will I ever find

A place in which to stay

Where peace can be her name

And sanctuary our play

With no one left to love

And friends that fade away

I need a little secret

In which to hide my destiny

After all these many years

You’d think I’d learned the game

Overcame a young man’s shame

Played it all the youthful way

Traveled all those roads as my hair turned gray

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I prefer to write in

Anonymity

The freedom it entails

Simply to be an pseudonym

Represented by a single word

The potential to be

Variable

Alpha or Omega

Female or male

A horizon

To express uninhibited

Faceless in a crowd

Existing only as a brief shout.

It is shameless almost

In its vanity,

To be cloaked

In a cultivated air

Seemingly mysterious,

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11/5 early morning slip-ups

strike you down.

The hunger is ugly.

Early smoke in the sunrise

beckons a call to the forlorn

finding company with

those that cast shadows and cloud

the windsheild.

Cold, Cold, Cold,

numb finger tips

tuning the radio dial,

searching for old solice

despite

the stuttering roar of the automobile.

I remeber her explor...

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