(With apologies to Thomas Hardy)

When I set out for Acamar,
    a hundred light years away,
    the galactic winds were at play.
I thirsted for an ice-blue star
when I set out for Acamar
    a hundred light years away.

What I should find at Acamar
    while held in its gravity field,
    AI had not revealed,
nor had my cogitation jar
said what I’d find at Acamar
    while held in its gravity field.

Third night
Douse the vigil light

Loons lament
Cinders float away

Lightning’s bony finger
Accuses Green Lake

He was harmless He was young and innocent He ran for his life Yet they pumped 20 bullets into him and left him lifeless Their justification? He was armed A threat to society But he was just an innocent kid Who was venturing in his grandmother's backyard and left that night in a body bag

My brother believed it was the constancy of the ordinary that drove the masses to Valium and Freud. The tiresome ritual that compelled some soul to wash and dry the dishes each night at 7:05– just after the drumming of the nightly news had turned his brain to plum pudding. Two children to scrub and bed– A barely significant snoring on the chaise and dreaming of doing evil. He wanted none of it— the ritualistic suicide by everyday life. He did not “push the boundaries”— that tired mantra that would have you strive for ordinary plus. He raged and courted disaster as some might court Sweet Sue–

The plumbing drips all through the storm,
while she dries his tears.

He fears that if he falls asleep, he'll lose her forever,
and as it turns out he was right because as soon as he drifts out, she grips his hand one last time before she succumbs along into the storm.

True Love


She sits, she waits, she prays

Darkness falls upon her face

She sits, she waits, she prays

Hoping that the day will finally come
Waiting
For the day when she will finally
Be allowed the chance
To tell him how she feels

She sits, she waits, she prays

As time passes by
A single tear
Falls from her eye
One
Small, sweet tear

In his name
Her mind remains the same

She sits, she waits, she prays

--Art of Thel

Brush their teeth each morning,
comb their thinning hair
then read the paper over breakfast,
practiced at ignoring the twinge
when they read a two-paragraph article
about the guys out there,
young men and women
dusting cobwebs off last century's dreams,
that twinge that comes to old folks
who would rather be doing
than reading.

Are endlessly tolerant
of questions, interviews,
of all the strangers, who, even now,
decades later,
see only those handful of days
breathing stars.
    
Never complain

City IV

How many times have I done this before?

Taken these broken stones
to rebuild this broken house.

Was this stone ever fresh?
Once, when it was whole… maybe
That is but a distant memory.

Yet. I start fresh –
with broken things,
The debris of dust and air.
The remains of yesterday.

I always took a moment to look
at the calmness that lay afterwards.
At the poignant beauty of destruction
The charred remains of a life rewritten

Like a tree that grows from a raped stump
A few moments of naked brown flesh

Once, in a puzzle, Kyle found many things which overrode the evil of the legendary Kalamezuch—there were the farmers, and the doctors, and the baristas with fine smiles… there were booksellers, and bartenders, scientists who study what’s in and out of the mind… real estate agents, environmental agents—they’re really too many to count… but the Kalamezuch had friends too: fear, for one; and hate—which stems from fear; also misunderstanding—which is human and not always bad, but many confusions erupt into situations that can be mildly uncomfortable (especially for artists—you know, those who must

The world is no good for you,
So you had to leave
To a place good enough to accomodate your beauty;
Teeth whiter than the snow,
Eyes darker than night,
Skin fresher than butter,
Duster on heart for the wipe of blemish
And tongue for words sweeter than honey and the honeycomb.
The people therein knew little of your worth
For their minds were full of dung
And their hearts were covered with haze.
Your body, a sprawling throne of gods
Was forced to bare for their pleasure,
Your blemish and blood
Running like the run of runnel.