angels resting on retired rooftops
rotting and resisting the urge to laugh
as silly humans chase a child’s game

i’m walking toward a stop light
contemplating a futile fight
as an elusive goddess
tells me to write
mystery on vines decayed by normality

and in the distance a simple soldier wages a quiet war
with pencils drawn, and pennies faced heads up
neck and chin held to oblivion
should he surrender to this sideways circumstance
fateful dance, passive chance
he’s tired of another failed romance

one more time, try to find
the secret to everyday life
and why is the morning so blue
as white hot ghosts shade the landscape
rushed and dumped into something new
we are flattened by wars, inflation, and faded love
it’s a social media sickness
as communities crawl past extinction
barely able to make the distinction
of monsters disguised as leaders
lying in wait

dysfunctional caption, closed scene
a dead symphony cries in this mortal moment
as a sad clown and dr strangelove
exchange pleasantries at the pyramid of dawn
waiting for another beautiful date
of simple destruction

walking backwards from a anonymous computer screen
i see all these white sheets and red tears
haunted by luxurious fears
kiss me twice to signal the beginning and the end
punched by drunk love
i lost the bet before i ever wagered

one more six pack
one more lonely night
sitting at this littered desk
i feel like i could write
the world
into several small phrases
with arms stretched wide to embrace the crucifixion

but i can’t write the horoscope of today
without finite words of yesterday
and tomorrow is never certain

absent and written on september soil
the wolves don’t howl anymore
and the birds have flown south
it’s a separate season
and i embrace this glorious treason
remember the eyes please
and trace the dream
i crave the fire held in your raven hair

nothing good can come of this
yet, i feel that i’m on to something
so, erase me one more time
because filth flies first
in the cradle of fabrication and flirtation
as evenings are spent
subtly weaving ghost stories
with tanned hands surrounded by
fast music in a slow background
killer caress
how can we still the shaking
of these salvaged shackles?

i dance with the dark
dark moon, dark skin
dark visions of what might have been
call the chaplain
for i’ve come to learn the meaning of sin

captured by spent passion
in the snail trail evening
i’m looking for something to fill this green void

nothing is new
yet, living through death
one moment of ecstasy
can free you from all this
banal morality