lxxxvii. Healing Me

It’s Sabbath morning, and
these lungs are wide-awake,
barely aware of
the train tracks they will find;

and while the world
comes to its annual
grinding halt, I’m
soaking in the morbid dew
–the narcolepsy fog—
of an ominous faux pas.

Dear Lord, it’s
Sabbath morning
and this boxcar is late;
my feet are a clump
of shredded windsor knots.

Is waiting the closest you come
to making mistakes?

My arthritic mirages won’t sleep
until pneumonia breaks the skin
of the heels that peel the tracks;

nor will my paralytic voice hush
before this prison bursts at the seams;

and the lexicon will map the way
through crop circle veins
(through soothsayer claims,)

until the freight plagues declare
a unanimous amen.

lxxxvi. The Fawn

all i want
is to desperately show the world
what they’ll miss
when they’re gone.

lxxxv. El Tiempo Vuela

my dying last words:
“i regret not believing
in everything.”

lxxxiv. Immortal

When we spoke, I
had faulty words
for hands;

and

you made it clear
that our silhouettes
were only numbers
at the back

of your user manual.

And we rocked
forward, and
back again,

I thought of the spark
versus the light:

a candid trench,
and the rotten stench
of our guillotine
charades.

Could you still
mock us

if you knew

where the dormant lies
were kept?

lxxxiii. Moiré Syndrome

Theirs was
a splendor unlisted
amongst tinted verses
in a crumbling book;

the smiles of Rome
refused to fade,

yes, the

ides of March
were a fate to break;

interlocked,
a pride of nightmares
stained themselves
into the footsteps

of tired homes:

they formulated
their own escape.

lxxxii. Verbose and Decayed

that place
(the cesspool)
that lies above
your temple veins,

it

called out in litany
and drowned away
the scent
of the rain.

and we heard:

the grinding of
breaks,

the
scent of the flame,

creep aboard
your paramour vessel.

and though
time never stopped;
though,
bones never knew
the taste of skin,

the morning became
a fading polaroid
of disease.

lxxxi. Entombed

Freshly comatose in stature,
the world revolved like
an old, sad, silent film
muted by decrepit crawls
from an acid dream;

it decayed, neglected,
and took a dive from
the surface of
the most beautiful nebula;

and in its dangling glory,
it declared its children
disowned—a pathetic
attempt at redemption;

even so, the galaxies
squirmed with relief,
laughing at balancing,
escapist attempts
from a quivering act.

Could we all finally
be nothing but
narcotics, elbows-down?

lxxx. Claustrophobia in the Drowning Fields

antiquity in liquid form:
he took a shot at osmosis
by perverted chemistry;

“a yesteryear ago,”
he’d hear them say,
“he baptized himself
a transient among giants.”

his silence would consume.

not two weeks later,
an unmarked grave
would wear his ashes
like moth-eaten coats;

all the while, the earth
swallowed his species
into a black hole
of lost opportunity.

lxxix. Landscape of Moths

A vocal doorbell,
they
said I could rest;

always on time,
greeting became
my very final words.

Insomnia, have we met?
You were my altar,

a valley of crumpled paper
and fragments of epitaphs
so dearly dedicated to
a culture of undead peons.

But, I fear,
the ghost of banality
has come to claim
my corpse.

lxxviii. Mount St. Christopher

Transantlantic and blue
with asthmatic fatigue, they
howled until the waves
gave in to their addictions;

they hit the ground,
still nostalgic from their births,
and waiting for the leashes
of an antiquated paradise.

(We were the only ones to blame
for our own asphyxia), they knew,

and still, the eyelids were rationed
to those remaining intact.

The only remedy was a seasick,
mid-sentence abortion of a blessing.