Be done for the day,
unanswered.
The sleepless nights of the nation
bringing to heel those movements transposed,
when the walls can no longer protect you from the elements.
I felt love,
feeding us and making us strong,
to become violence on the leeches
only a few feet away,
who will not bend by force.
There can be no companions here.
Our identities,
something that burrowed into the background,
but we’ve known that;
reduced we are to subtle heat obscured.
Hanging from the wires,
no one to prune the eccentricities
between this place and another.
So eager to find themselves fit amongst the stars,
all the insides set to fire;
It can’t go on like this.

I can taste the years;
every moment respected and cherished,
severed from the world around us,
on the other end of the beginning;
silent and still,
dripping.
Once we had it all together,
tumbling like a clod of dirt down a hill,
that will collapse under pressure;
restrained only by old roots.
Let that comfort you in your time of need.
The smell of ancient minerals,
oil, grease,
that languish lecherously
against all the dreams of fate.

The end is nigh,
though no one is there to hear
the autumn leaves laughing beneath tranquil steps;
like water toiling away,
tossing up all the horrors we had forgotten.
Those truths that hide in the present, revealed,
but brighter,
                      leave nothing that was.
Echoes,
captured by some concern that is not me,
a stroke of color
pressed hard against a blank paper,
the sound tumbling up a long hollow
until pleasantness is nullified,
from years of giving more than expected,
dying in avarice.
I’m not sure now why it didn’t break
while we fought against it,
the long wait and effort vindicated
before that final curtain drops.
The systole and diastole
cannot survive to the end.

Where the wires, pipes and tubes retire,
quiet hidden movements
with shrouded secrets even the skin conspires on,
stabbing at the ceiling in six different places,
until, at last, broken.
Like orphaned laughter so briefly sustained,
to become part of a greater whole,
the salt laden water water rising to the throat;
a sense of belonging,
lapping at what warmth drips down,
in the brighter corners of that vacant place.
I can’t remember why I enjoyed it so much.

Eager to grow into something beautiful,
and quietly resign to darkness;
I would fashion some reverence from the stale stone slate.
It’s not trash, but it should be,
to open eyes questing;
awkward, ungainly,
bruises, cuts, and wounds.
Overwhelming,
wondering,
yet no less worthy of what alms we offer.
And that is enough.
We are bleached sidewalks in the sun.
I don’t know.
Some part of that old life,
forcing itself through too small a gap,
crumpled like crash test dummies;
Belies what was beneath our feet.

I want it all – and quickly,
while the state of my mind,
cannot reconcile what is real.
I must feed it,
before it gets away from us.
Para llamar a casa,
in violent protest.

Hours are indiscernible from minutes.
I regret thinking time was like the sea,
that primal tugging beyond the veil;
but truth does not move through time as we do.
Collecting like lightning in a bottle,
settled like stew in a dim lit room.
This is the world,
all our troubles overflowing,
like so much sand over the desert dunes.
Exhaust what you can, the endings don’t stop.

Naked,
I fear that life,
though it is dependent on the past.
A heavy hand may have cast it out,
as a thresher to an arm amongst the wheat;
a cloud of chaos still warm from the womb,
confident there is plenty more
(if you’ve got the coin to spend).
It’s not like it thirsts for blood,
it will find empathy
excavating what innocence is left,
in the darkness.The leaves are gone.
Lives are short,
taint us with histories,
known, expected, overpowering,
everything.