Mothwing
A king amongst withered thrones,
And no subjects but himself,
I have come to solemn precipice,
And stand ready.
Soon I plunge into new wonders,
But for now I prepare.
This silken year soon blooms on moth wings.
an old door
from your best
friend’s house
before he moved
away that is now
a coffee table
in your living room
It’s been a while
Since I’ve been surrounded by so much faith
Not just in God but
In my admittedly limited abilities
I hold no illusions
About making friends off the field but
With cleats and gloves on we’re family
Heating pads the day after
May make me feel old but
Coming home dirty and excited
Makes me a proper kid again
A fair trade
The world has become a fistfight
I didn’t start and can’t finish.
It’s a good time to take up Buddhism.
I want an I.V. of sunshine and lollipops.
Jesus looked upon the sea and said
Peace, be still.
Now God’s whispering
Your turn.
No Reply Needed
This bitter marriage–
Holds her steady in our place,
Foreign bodies, weighted.
Skin cut
split flesh
to share
with no one
(anyone?)
unsown seeds
fall
to
the
dry
concrete
starving,
picking at what’s left
of its own dry bones
yearning to taste
the imaginary fruit
before
sucking the marrow dry
and relishing beauty
that
once
inhabited
this
rotten
core
i have fought this battle
long and hard
my lungs
have sucked in
decay
despair
anguish
and ecstasy
and i have choked on them all
they have filled me up
like a man fills a woman
but without any of the pleasure
or release
and they have writhed
over my body
and discolored
the velvety, supple skin
that used to be mine
i have become the depths in which i lie
i am underground,
coughing, hacking, wheezing
and running out of air
there is no light,
no torches, no sun
no gentle kiss of wind
or soft blades of grass
to comfort my aching feet
there is only stone
and dirt
and worms
and death
and me. only me.
here in this place,
i have made a home–
a hell–
from which
i will never escape
“a veteran knight without
a kingdom to fight for”
– An old friend
Chivalry ain’t dead, but it’s been creeping
continental drift towards the kingdoms
in broken worlds—every edge a symptom,
every value begged but then found boring
next to mercenary-peddlers breathing
vows of suspect fealty to become
what
they always were: the price, the willful sum,
the chosen vice that’s left us, everyone,
sleep
ing.
Arthur’s calling audibles in graves;
Neruda’s wondering what there is to save.
Face the facts (squire of my heart): You’re more
than tourneys for a bit of silk, than scores
that qualify your fells and falls. You are
the only
kingdom
you’ve
dismissed
so far.
