Ten Ways to Look at a Cigarette Butt

Rubbed into the depths, 

a forest of broken bark,

resting and still burning

a cigarette

The butt of the cigarette

the only place

to escape

fibers of the

heavy hushed secrets

A woman pulls

in the fumes

once more

before

drowning it in

a hallow ash

tray

Like looking inside

a vein once

flooded in crimson

now echoing the

laughter of life

A cigarette is

a neighbor of

hardened gum

pounded and pushed,

flattened in the

traffic of hurried

feet

Feeling as

though it is

stuck here

turning the depths 

of itself green

longing to be a 

button

Stretch out

the thickening

walls which

guard the soul

curve them

without disturbance 

until the ends of

them kiss

hold fast to 

the flame

A battle cry

in the

heavens

victory is webbing

and fragile

The cigarette butt

remains silent

to the ears

of its sibling

proving its

promise

sorrows remain

protected

Buried beneath

hidden almost

yet completely

noticed

in the dirt, 

a rotting garden

A Backwards Dream From the Flipside of Your Pillow

For a moment

the silent

yet moving, pastel characters

caught my attention

Sun-kissed dry

hands moved

no more than mere millimeters

as they naturally would

Not even as

the hads

of the clock wound around

in the opposite direction

Stapled to the wall

the only decoration

besides black-stained furniture

even an un-made sleigh bed

Bringing my feet

backwards, my

back facing where, only a few

moments before, my face

Had been headed.

Out through

the lofty door frame, turning

the corner, midnight approaching,

No steadier pave

than this

one, I walked through a

stranger's empty, quiet house

Continuing now, the coolness

of dew collecting on outside

pavement met the souls

Of my pink feet

as they

caught the edges of an

ocean condensed into this

Sink hole the moderns

called a pool

Feeling as the frigid splashes

enveloped first my legs

On up to my

torso and finally

the rest sunk down in the dark,

salty waters, an army of kelp

Coiled around me

as the brown

hair cleared and showed

a face with hazel eyes

Completely open, a body

drifting by silently

as the kelp released me

 like I was not wanted

anymore. Surging

me to the bottom

what once held these waters

as concrete phased my body,

In no way

as I easily

seeped through the microscopic cracks

like sand through a sifter

Back into warmth

fleece and cloth

wrapped tightly around me

still unmoving yet lying

The feet stop

familiar space

and sight and smells are

all original sensations

Automatically as my

head rolls

to the left, feeling the coolness

of the flipside of my pillow

We The Free

Each pitch was perfect

echoing throughout

the deserted auditorium

The light above burning

to their fullest potential

only the spotlight was off

resting on the worn floor

just in front of a

lonely, lanky soloist

Whose eyes barely

twitched; empty and scared

as if imagining an applause

That would never ring

against the drums in

 the ears that matched

the flawless notes

escaping in a caravan

of soft melodies

Dusty red velvet curtains

came barreling inward

kissing as each side met

Behind the soloist

remaining still

While the spotlight

darkened and drove

through any solid

foundation, a hole

Soon a twitch

in the fourth finger

lead to another

Then the entire hand

closing in on itself

to grip, to clench

blue veins protrude

against the skin of the arm

a face sculpted for anger

From behind the curtain

a sliver of pure water

snaked its way around

Over the miniscule

particles of dirt and dust

towards the bottomless

hole where the

unreached spotlight

had shown moments before

Falling easily over

the rounded edge

as an unbroken stream

Making a glassy trickle

like water from a faucet

the only sound

heard in many years

besides the voice of

the soloist

Ringing like an untuned

symphony, far, far away

yet so foreign it blistered

The drum which only

recognized angelic pitches

causing the fists to

 clench, tighter

making the sweat drop

into the ever-widening water

The mouth forced open

eyes collapsed to a shut

chords in the throat

Caught, no sound

came out,it had

mutated pitches

dancing in its wake

that cannot be heard,

not worthy of praise

And yet these silent years

reflected in a wet mirror

behind the stage are hazy

As the short hand

reached the seven

in the evening every

night, the soloist took

the stage alone

flawless, no applause

Water now rushing

well past the ankles

swayed the soloist

Still writhing in a

pain from endless

vacant applauses dripping

to the water and mixinig

in each memory that was held

in a moment flooding from

The  cracking mirror,

shards shooting off

and swept into the current

To the hole which

had no end

until the pressure

became unbarable

the mirror burst

into a great wave

Knocking the

soloist from his

lonely stance of perfection

Free falling in the hole

washed by the water

which held his pain

the waves sounding much

like the applause desired

lifting the weight

We the Free



Glass in My Eyes

The reflections that play
against the glass in my
eyes show you a journey

What my sight has
shown me are things
not just views

But rather a story;
perhaps my story, the
reason I came to be

The reason I am the
way I am, formed
continuously by the

Visions I have seen
every waking moment
of my on-going life

So rather judge my
visions of these passing
stories across the

Glass in my eyes
to fully know the
story of me

Welcome To Heartbreak (for Clare)

The snap of a finger
the flap of a wing
that's all it took
to welcome, to lurch
you beneath the
longest, most daring
stretch of blistering
hot, vibrant red
cumulous clouds
waiting
for this one
short moment
to explode
sending every
feeling, memory
of fiery
passion
in the inner most
cavities of your strong,
fragile heart;
showering, burning
your tender skin
searing the tiniest
of hairs, however
with so great a
force
that your knees
knock together
trembling to
keep your body upright and
failing at the
very start
bringing you
into lonliness
and your legs bend into
your chest
because it
throbs now
that a
chunk
of it is
missing, pouring
down in the molten
lava raindrops
Oh, darling,
Welcome to heartbreak

Masquerade

Daylight has fled

Darkness resounds

Amongst the trees

Silence

Fills the empty

Spaces between

The nimble

Fingers

As they slip

The vibrant, feathered

Covering over the

Tender

Skin surrounding

Curious lashes blanketing

Eyes like wet

Sand

All the while

The sound of

A jubilant quartet

Plays,

Beckoning, luring

All to follow

And sway

Together

Until the hands of time

Forbids it any longer

Be free and let slip what lies

Beneath

Little One

Soften the foot steps leading

Into the creaking, open doorway

For the promises it beholds

Are nothing more than deceiving

Little One, this is not how tomorrow

Should begin

Uncurl each trembling finger

That takes comfort in the

Wrinkles engraved in pink palms,

Stretch them forth and for a time, linger

In the rays pouring in between each

Wooden doorframe

Stay only a moment, no more,

Watch as the pigment deepens

Slowly, surely it is devoured

Ripping open, falling to the shore;

Barricade each plump crimson lip,

Bone exposed

A tremor rattles out, uncontrollable

Pull back with hast, no more

Than a moment, warning, remember!

But, oh, it is too late, the power unstoppable

Seeps through to the fibers in the mind,

Now useless

Little One, use the power resounding

In the innocence beneath each

Tip of a finger nail

This is not how tomorrow should be beginning