In Gelatinous Space

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Of confitures sealing in the sweet

marmalade’s enduring quest for the conservancy

and the prompting of deliquesce—urging forth a fluctuation, setting still degrees of cogency—in thaw, until only trickling liquidity is left

It’s like the world’s been doused at first

and then drowned as its movement’s been rehearsed

And here, you find your entirety’s been smothered in pectin,

sluggishly plodding limbs throughout, the coagulating terrain

to which the self stirs silently about

Perspectives alter

as once steadfast points of view

diminish then dissolve, deteriorating

in the hesitancy you’re flailing within

Perspectives vary—from the numb to the decayed

stewards of thought, dream, surrender, then dream again,

seemingly all a part of something apportioned someplace that’s ever been above and beyond the ideals instilled by mortal hands

Ordnances are found, and in such hidden estates, we locate the

weaponry we’d forfeited many days ago

Preponderances accumulate in algid states

where what was deemed luxurious not long before

it stares you down, evangelizing the integral salience,

that’s always been deferred, yet never ceded its importance

to the very game you’ve claimed to, if not tame, then at least to have trained

Sludge, slag within coulees of expansive sight

oozing, seeping through scoria, basally encapsulating the prism’s light

arms, legs with their passions cooled

by embalmed gelatinous masks of glazing drook

ingratiating oneself to such confounded states of reality

wriggling, jiggling, writhing still, in a glistening sense of dream

porridge-like moments, inspiring deflation and its merry bands

of stagnant clans, coiling then collapsing, around, within, stifling drive and

breeding a yearning, for a solidity ever-after permanent in its stability

Bubbling becomes ever fixated upon the stories of escapade

dripping frozen space in timeless states of catatonic embrace

beyond the lips, chilling illustrations impart their never thawing

artistry—formed at the point of first gasp, forever indicating the escutcheons detailed embodiment of gelid finality  

Jarring Doorjambs

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Ajar, the entry ways

elicit—spur the aching beds

of confessions seen within

The jagged frenzy spawned from staggered rhythms—pattern astringed fables of fates depraved—where the singular act of concealment—hide all our disjointed nightmares and vacancies—in a place reserved for and then burrowed deep within the individuality found apportioned by steps of dance—vagrantly strolling—through   windswept corridors and disheveled halls—

where lost landings rise—and then fall,

unto vantage points sustained in the tunes crafted from the

notes the shivering abandons there and then—

Appalling squalors build—by the bannisters of

Deconstruction, its every essence

filtrates throughout each the unspoken commonalities—

where untethered chains assist the binding spells

procured

Garrisons and sentries

mark the gated sequencing—as

clotted entities plead their mournful songs

unfit for proper speech—and without an inkling of reprieve,

they bleed out in drips that seep, suffocating slow—and all of this finds its reasoning built squarely upon the foundations of echoes cast long before—where through the means of unknown strands, causalities appear, cuff linking you, out and because of the strange heredity that somehow pulses through your frayed and feeble artistry—and this all came to be pronounced, out of your very own predilection toward loyalty and all the renderings one such world view could suggest—where condensation bubbles from

deep within the internally prohibitive valves—locked, forever

upon the distinct flavorings forged by the self-reverential hands of  nepotistic pontification

Brackets are built, succinctly to stop-gap

the harrowing appeals of misaligned and

decentralizing forces—and are brokered solely to quell the flaring

distempers, too oftentimes layered in and by prideful construction—

Calamity, gagged by kerosene soaked tattered cloth—

stuffed deep into the gaping wound ever only offering

festering appeal

Fade for me my darkened dreamscape—as

no longer am I able to collect your escalating

fares—

         What once piqued the disgruntled interests of

a wayward child, has since grown apostrophized in it’s ever

soiling stirs that blend contaminating sediments into

thickening waves, where the necromancy of gelidness broods

afoul—leaving the composition unrecognizable—allotting only scars remain in view—sorted indiscriminately within loosely sealed mason jars that settle too near the shelving’s ledge  

Pine Box

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Sleeping in a pine box

thinking about the other day

sleeping in a pine box

dreaming that this time

it’ll all turn out some other way

It’s sad how fast we deteriorate

breaking free, rotting unto the lost domains

unprepared for what will be claimed

we grow resigned in the mannerisms of loneliness and loss

where stagnating shards fragment and shape our future plots

Sleeping in a pine box

thinking about the others

sleeping in a pine box

all the father’s, daughters, sons and mothers

It’s amazing how things often come down

to the number of correct decisions we make,

the one’s we never would have made

if not for one mistake, often an accidental turn

we, at the time, deemed to be entirely incorrect

And we never would have had the opportunities

to live and to love, to bleed and to sweat

all those intangible emotions that

would not be available now, or

would not be available in the innumerable futures yet to come

But the erroneous turn we did commit

and the flaw will forever be remembered

when necessary, for sensorial exhumation

Sleeping in a pine box

thinking about the other day

sleeping in a pine box

eyes closed yet open, wide as they’ve ever stayed

And in these containers

we hold our cherished mistakes

as one would keepsake any artifact

that holds close the unmeasured meanings

ever available for conjuring crucial memories lost but never forgotten…in a pine box

Crystallization of the Soul (Frostbite)

Iditarod

vacation’s peak

where the wilderness

reenacts the fates forged

by cryogenic rendering

Tennis racquets tripping toes

pressing patterns upon

the treads of snow

Wolves amass over the icy ridge

watching, waiting

for the submissions of untrained eyes

Frozen, under glassy shards

frigid little stings, so harsh, so very

persistent is its brittle bite

Eventually, when in a perpetual state of numbness,

the pursuit of warmth grows forgotten, somehow

arriving at the point, where frost and irrelevance mix 

Cottonmouth

Deep Saharan

unseen strain

breaking down

most every thing,

until, that moment

arrives once more,

when ably you’ll

open the mouth agape,

with the absolute intention

of drowning this arid state,

freeing the path to your

escape