A Note on Pathos

A Note on Pathos

Weak feelings of foreclosure, one breath high upon the pile

a monumental steamroller, underneath, while the crowd shouts for more

eating flesh, pulling the flesh, smashing everything down, eviscerate

incited agenda, want to dissect, everyone who stood

you feel nothing, to lose everything, emotions through, and the distance grows

no internal apocalyptic, never loved, evil compelled by logic

the numbness, a rejection of everything, furrowed people

and care about nothing, the strive, the purpose, the agenda

struggling within, to die once more, dead in their eyes

this creeps upon, from her lips, with bright eyes and darkened souls

you, recognizable soul, slow corrosion, I nail you to the floor,

crawls up the back, the forces of good and evil, bloodthirsty ghoul

and takes you with the wildness, never inhabited, under the devious face

by surprise, raised in your own image, they do lie, falling asleep

with capacity, chewing your heart, here to trick you, to fold

the most important, turns to the mouth, seeing darkness, into little creatures

you feel nothing, hoisted white flags, plastic spreading sickness

or capacity for empathy with anyone else, giving the flame

you become a blind and brutal force, a proxy for freedom, for execution, sick like you

that has no direction, burying your head, breathe in the dark as the others sleep

or destination, swallowed, engulfed, feeling the blood, out into the streets.

Leaving

Leaving

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.