welcome to astoria

towards the steel-tiled horizon
silver snakes slither and hiss
along the backs of bare spines
jutting from fossilized land
giant parasols of rails and rust
cover cracked pathways
long forgotten futures
of roaring yesterdays
that presently pave each day
from gilded heart
to home sweet home

unpacking

there’s the one
where i wasn’t sure
of what i was holding
the picture
or her
or the picture
in her
or the thought
of more pictures

(if god made photobooths
then the devil made power)

and i don’t have the time
to cut every cord
i don’t have the time
to break every bulb
to tear every curtain
to obscure every lens
to jam every change slot
to burn down every bar
to save every soul
from making prisons
out of memories

or

from freeing
all the love
chained to the dark corners
of musty
standing cameras

the art of silence

she lost her tongue
in the swirling grey aftermath
of the blinding implosion
dead star quiet
she reaches me
in white hot lines
of dying frequencies
and illuminates absence
like a spinning lighthouse
carving through
oil-slicked air

? (!)

love’s allegory acidic
orange plunge heart pulp
syrup sweet the rivers run
arms’ length away
far from gutted hunger

hypocrisy tree bare word fruit
parch wilt water you are
branches burnt bend break
explode expose brittle ground
tilt topple impact SOUND

quiet?

soft?

auburn leaves piled pillow high
(thoughts raked long before the fall)
saved the whole shebang

what?

point?

the irony is enough
to make me squeeze
an orange into one good eye
and see your side
to make me shove
a splintered stick into one good ear
and listen to your story

this is the sound

this is the sound
corrugated fingers scraping sheet metal hips
this is the sound
open brick tongue shaping barbwire lips
this is the sound
flaming kettle drums banged by velvet hammers
this is the sound
ossified arms snap grasping love's glamour
this is the sound
my angel engulfed in snow driven silence
this is the sound
cut circuits encapsulate electric defiance
this is the sound
broken winged doves whistling through the sky
this is the sound
player piano memories notched on my eyes
this is the sound
pure silken rivers of hair rushing shoulders
this is the sound
crackling brown grass of touch growing older
this is the sound
razor rain pummeling pavement to dust
this is the sound
echoes of sentiments pretending to be us
this is the sound

lily lane

there existed the evergreens
coniferous canopies floating hazily in sunset air
blazing black crows tied tightly to treetops
untamed rains of sound ushering in twilight
fading amber rays grazing her sweet cheek
fire on the water tumbling toward cold toes
ballads of atlantic winds whistling through my head
she a solar flare symphony swarmed by fireflies
keeping me campfire warm
lost in her lost in the wilderness
her sideways smile is a compass
i etch that image on my tongue
and taste it when hungry
paint that image on my eyes
and see it when i sleep