Dreams

her.

death the psychosis, torment the arbitrary
mind, I dreamed of the topples of
thunderbirds, medusa-ing

For that is only what we seek.

The roads, the valleys, the ripened dreams in solidarity,
To a handful weaved of a ghost aubade in speech
Evoking contingent flames unmourned, and embraced
As the shaken birth from the morning, I starve the feathered dreams,
As I no longer follow through with the nightlong autumn near the glass,
I hope we don’t forget each other, and that we will remember
The wind that passes through the roots, and the river rocks that sought for better dirt

Oh, Dream.

And I rest my hands on the twilit moorland on the river’s expanse as I plea
“For the love of God!” in a tunneling light, haunting laughter.

A Night Walk. (Prose)

Pennies and old skeletal-like lining threads slip out from the rafters of the grey old well in the mall—search in for the coin, fiddle with it, the dirt croaks under nails,

like the bridal hem that touches the base of the floral steps, patterned by the picturesque; rib of man; “leave a stone at my feet.”

As I Mourn a Flower.

O’! The tawny wings
Onto a sonata from a pithy child of the haulm,
Of a viceroy butterfly into the diamond torrent,
Falls onto the mouth of a morning river, lay my heart
Onto the mercy of an evening fire, as I mourn a flower

Viceroy.

Light, midnight,
On moorlands, summoning fate,
Alone, viceroys break
Every pretty tear that rises

Nightfall.

as I fall deeper into the silent
moon and I whisper
into a darkened room before sleep
‘I give my words beyond the nile and
‘I give my words by the river
all into a darkened night to keep…’

Mid-Dream.

Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone,
Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream
That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in the sun-set,
Which is the winter mid-dream on a night of silence, my sorrow again,
That will dwell in faint winds during the late dawn
Blinded by the hyacinth that gave silence within the moorland

The Rivers of What I Can’t Forget.

As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom
Would fall dead at the bed of falling leaves that holds the lost womb of the willow tree,
That lovely stem from leaf where no river should pull along the tusks of ground,
And it should not break away from a frail dream. Why, must it be the river stream,
That curls along the frosted beams of the old axletree where it will be dried by the fog,
Where it will surrender to the slippery tears on a marred charcoal rock,
That has moss on it with little sticks, little sticks. It was a cold night.

As I’ve Forgotten Between the Wind.

Like soil with collective stems of a crooked rock
That brushed your fingers, all dampened,
That a mother would tell you to wash up,
Hurry on; but as I’ve remembered,
An olden, washed face, only ashen in lengths,
As I’ve forgotten time in between tonight,
And the best the day had hummed
The song of the copious endorphin springs