through ancient

burial grounds

inside wrath

my heart and

the one beyond but

the water remains

underground

I saw a shape

but then it turned

into a tree

and I’m not

sure if I am

welcome here

I’m not sure.

beating hell

into this man

to say overbearing

would be underwhelming

cars holding humans

lamenting traffic

only drifting down

the street at single

horsepower speed

while this anonymous

man wishes he could

trot instead he is

confined to a

literal snail’s pace

this is not

an allegory

man alive

a stranger hobbling

up south broad

overweight and

disintegrating

no spine just

two crutches

each one drifting

one by one

one grueling step

at a time

this local star is

overbearing on this

day that has no shelter

in early june in

the city of brotherly alienation

these humans won’t remember

him but one or two will dish out

pity or maybe even some sadness

honeysuckles

a fleeting glimpse

into a time in

youth when purity

came in small doses

maybe this reminder will be

somewhat sufficient to guide me

back to innocence

Along the Seven Woods Trail

With a Sean Bhean

Whom only means well

One of the trails that Yeats frequently walked, May 27th 2013 at Lady Gregory’s Estate in Coole Park

were all I ever was

then I’d be comforted

by the smallest of

things, and my worries

would evaporate at

the stroke of my ear.

Instead I take shelter

from more than just

the wind, myself,

other people, this

place could be silent.

My grave, a foreign

home, death is my master

and I a disloyal slave.

to the right of me, blowing

on a whistle, sharply, as

he flaps his hands

A bird with broken wings,

screeching through its

tiny beak, while hawks

circle overhead

A certain hawk that I

look up to, a phantom

predator which has been dead

for years and yet still flies with the rest

The hawks that still live

who desire such vulnerable

birds I deplore, and yet what

should I think about the one long dead?

If only this child in his stroller

had talons strong,

so that he could not be

preyed upon

If only that dead man

were not a demon

his flight would then

have been graceful

The insolent child

Dripped in acrid yellow
Deliberately

This is preceded
By a yawn

A prophetic jeer
Bored of its
Own excess

This is ridiculous
It says, while carrying
On

“I am not decadent
But I practice
Decadence”

Stumble down
The street
Ask a child
For a light

Passing by pieces
Of dissonance not
Even electronic

“I’m not interested
In the
Interesting things”

Drink your
Shame

Stop being stale

This city gets turned on by the smell of its own decay.

And referencing nature while only knowing remnants,

of which, are lined up and cut out mathematically, yet imperfectly.

Despite of all the talk about changing the self,

the fluidity lies in the circumstantial.

The monotonous repetition and contradiction,

desiring cold while hot and vice versa.

Left and right thighs twitch back and forth

while the grass around shivers and sways.

Sylvia Plath thought she was the God of grass

and so she had the power to take her own life.

Call it having short sight.

The grace that you have carried in your heart

Abide with me, although you emanate

A modesty and humbleness, apart

I’ve been from Him and you, tis been too long,

I have tried, and yet I fail to love

At times, the darkness in my mind is wrong,

You know there is some goodness in your dove,

Your child, the mustard seed, small but growing

The stubborn tree, a nuisance through and through

Yet you have taught me all about sowing

To cut the weeds and branches gone askew

And so I wish to let you know I’ve grown

Because of you I’ll never be alone