Out into the street, dragged, under your nose
they, you, us, killing thing-fingerless gloves
executed, dressed all nice and fancy-black leather
all others, admired touch, which a velvet
burned the pretty words, some very subtle things
tongues nailed up with your shadows, pretending
on the courthouse walls, I rolled you down.
Look, dead prophets, a buildup of layers
once flowed as your boredom laughed
never owned, me the views, to be real
by the love song from everyday life.
Now they are silent, large landscapes
staring into the distance , all sepia tones
and dead little fleck, light upon your breasts
like the rest of us, your rawness.
Fields, still comes through, never more beautiful
with good intentions, I watched and waited
changed so much, as your scarlet see-through blouse
because they were blessed, danced through the streets
with such insight, repeat ourselves, with flowers in your ears
and understanding, building upon the other.
Tupelo (Published Bone Orchard Poetry)
sitting on floor, casting long shadow
with the smell of bodily pronounce
physical exertion, the end-slaughterhouse
propped up all around you, with flamboyance
can possess, between your legs, voices
hear the music, anymore; you hide it under your seat,
poison everything, with mercy and born
they will never fade, inhospitable cradle
smoke, holding Bacchus down
Valhalla, with one foot-on your soul
I didn’t realize, the downsize of truth
the full extent of the down here, the awakened flesh
of your injuries, and the beforehand starts,
the postures of exhaustion, spits freestyle
they fall out empty and get paid
onto the floor; are themselves exhausted
I pick through them, the guilty confessions
everything appears like a slippery nipple
flattened, shortened and bastardized.