THE LAST PICNIC

Dare to tell
the truth

and you

they will
crucify.

Within this
equation

mixed with

deceit lies
the lie.

In silence it begins
to fertilize.

Returned

from beyond
shed of flesh

the naked dead
walk again.

Mistaking our saviour

for someone else
the cycle begins

anew. Keep the truth
to yourself

Share with no one

All eyes rise
to skies so blue.

RETURN TO SENDER

Frozen in abject terror
Flowing through imbedded roots
Skin curling blackened away
Reveals red raw ruin
Where once was a mask
Never a face
Feel the wind for
The very first time
Then, season the silence
With a sigh,
Cut out your own tongue,
And hand it to the head of state,
On a white napkin,
On a china plate.
Bow halfway with feigned good grace;
This has explained such gifts
As a voice are a waste.

RECYCLED & ABUSED

Usurper. Contaminant.
Continues the domain
by the minute of the ant.
Certain sovereignty.
Magnified to burn away
self reflective memories.
We divide and turn astray.
Tyrants are replaced far away.
Live each day a mutant.
Beware the sun.
Each thumb is a man.
Being an army of one.
Try to understand
Any world leader isn't dumb.
Rather, it is we who are,
I mean mute. Like ants,
industrious. In peace
we rust, trust me,
they're not all like us.
What am I saying?
You tell me. Usurper.
Contaminant. Commandant.
But make it brief.
You got a ship to run.
...or do you?
(What is it you want?)

WE

The insect's soul shed of its carapace.

The hive's former inmates set free.
Power granted to the naked wolf.

The holders of the serpent's key.
Lost shepherds of the lonely trees.

Walkers with the birds and whales.
The tellers of all conceivable tales.

Sowers of the seeds of chance.
Hoping for an opportunity to dance.

One way ticket to a fantasy.
A neat trick to bypass reality with.

A debt exacted for extremes.
Millipedes freed into segments.

Centuries of centurions dreaming dreams.
The guardians of safely locked away remembrance.

The soft face of a spider.
The smooth skin of an oak.

The sharp teeth of a tree.
The eyes of a silver mine.

The fingers of quartz.
The oxygen mask of a fish.

Thus freed the soul of Animus
Mundus implodes into we.

JUMPSTART

When fury rises
and burns the toast





Unbuckled, the world
implodes a windshield.





a Fist flies an immeasurable arc
into the car and grabs a heart.





A star's rays filter in the dawn
on the afternoon rush home from work

____

It is not a heart, it is an ocean
It is not a nervous system, it is rain
It isn't inside us, we are inside it
You are the rock it uses for a pillow

It is not a boat, but the river itself
It doesn't flow until we start swimming
It is not the light; rather, it is our eyes
It is not your pupil, but a garden

They are not your irises they are everyone's.
It is not the rain you are.
It isn't a river until you jump in.
It's not a garden unless you become lost in it
whose flowers belong to no one but ourselves.

It is the stone held onto for warmth,
the one you pluck from your ribcage
and give away.
It is not the warmth you then
receive from another,
but the medium of exchange itself.

We are not the executors.
We are the spare change
it leaves for the homeless

HAMMOCK

for May Swenson



Caught up
under a star
is that where
you really are?

Where do you rest
in this scene
arrested by
a dream...

Abandoned by
a lost cause,
left stranded
out on two paws?