gone days 
of a whispered rack, lashed 
against obsidian history 
misunderstood. 
these ropes weren't made to slip over my wrists 
but that's what god invented nails for.

dawn days
breaking , split gut and glowsticks 
cured ham and other salted relics :
tryptophobic abstracts
tiger traps to tiptoe over 
the weight of legends heavier 
than bruised absconding feet 

colored nights 
an exchange of Styx strangers
under false warmth of LED lights 
much less hostages than misfit 
captive to holes where they don't belong
like leather scraps
spared antiquing gel
saddle brown post-colonials 

colored lights 
bombshells; knockouts 
oscilloscopic radiance to the tune of dancing filters 
catching the slag, poured top-over 
end-over 
raised and braised, branded in Andover 
what a waste of a lifetime 
(oily ice cubes wristed up and out
a garborator churns and chokes its last
in tandem; in memoriam) 
how much more apt could this grave be?