Hands 1-3

1.

In search of brutal hands

that can bash in skulls and eyes and tongue,

hands that turn the person to primordial

and leave visceral poetry across

the crime scenes, hands that pour

goat milk and raw honey from Grecian vases

and waterboard this temple until

it cries out cosmic truth,

hands made of serpent flesh

that pull hearts and lungs from cages

and examines them in the fresh mountain sun

looking for potential jewels,

hands that do the work of Revalations,

that drum and trumpet the beat of four riders

pulling apart this husk

in those cardinal directions

leaving a mandala of all one was

for scavengers to fight over,

hands that won’t let go till our

fervorous pleas of OH-PLEASE-KILL-ME

aren’t speaking from a place of fear

but from the roots,

in search of those hands

that show us all that remains

good in a man.

 

2.

If I rub my hands together, with enough force

I can turn the dust into sparks,

a handful of lightning thoughts and thunder beliefs,

and if I do it long enough,

there will be plenty for you and for me.

 

And if we rub our hands together, with enough force,

we can turn all fear into a seedling,

a tree with roots tangled in and out our

skin, blossoms bursting through our chests

and fruit shall fall from our eyes

as we age.

 

I rub my hands across the petals of your lips,

I can turn them into ash, with enough force,

and then I can hold more of you

in my hands.

 

If I rub my hands together

I can turn your dust into sparks

all lightning struck tree,

planted in the palm of me.

 

3.

Those who can read

Know her as a star map, already fading

 

those who can touch

Know her sympathy can, in fact, vanish

 

Those who can hold

End up knowing she doesn’t really want them

 

Those who are offered, though,

Know she is handing them a second chance.

The Marriage of Samhain and Pomona (Old Poem)

A piece from this time last year. Little Halloween history poem for y’all…

 

The Marriage of Samhain and Pomona

 

I stumbled through all that fall foliage

To perform my duty as the last druid

And wed them before the full moon.

 

Ceremony aside, I aimed to find

A vampyre or witch to lie with

And send up magick sparks

Next to all those escaping bonfires.

 

Goal in mind, I was rather taken back

When asked to proceed to the bedding

And assist in some manner personal.

 

Samhain, brute he be

Wrapped me in his crimson arms

And asked this favor of me,

Bed Pomona in place of he.

 

She was too foreign a taste

A bitter little drink,

not what he wanted in a wife.

 

For her part, Samhain told me

This was her idea,

She did not want his stains on her robe

Nor the wild in her.

 

Thrice I declined, and thrice

They pushed and pulled,

Groping hands moving in waves

 

The moans of our lovemaking

Sent the beasts into a frenzy,

Such divinations I’ve never seen

As when Samhain forced Pomona on me.

 

They stuck an apple in my mouth

And a spit through my back,

Let a fire take the mattress

 

What a feast, at the midnight wedding

What beasts, my vampyre and witch

What release, this consumption of my flesh

What an end to the last druid priest.

We Used to Talk

Ponder with me, if you will, 

Those distant cousins who crafted language. 

To emerge, erect and erect from

The shadows, the lack, the before, 

Into the mistakes of Eve. Imagine

The poetry rolling through 

Hills of tongues, fjords of teeth, 

Just to taste it and birth bird song. 

Imagine how the moon conspired

To create romance and lust,

The Sun spawning wonder and the guteral sound of art, 

Doubt oozing out of the swollen snakebite

And the venomous glee in being

The smith of words just to hurt. 

Ponder the creation of song and wails, 

The utterance of a messiah and the horns of Jericho, 

The white horse and death rattle. 

Now, Speak. 

Help Me Name This Poem!

Howdy folks. Quick look into my writing process offered up here. I always write my pieces without titles (or vice versa and create titles without poems) and then try to find a title that sums up the work at the end. This one eludes me. Like, I have no fucking clue what to call it. So, I offer this untitled work to you, and give anyone who reads this the opportunity to give it a name. Until I get your help it will remain nameless and unloved, and it’s my baby. Help me name my wee little baby, wouldn’t you? kthanxbai…

 

Untitled

Garbed in militant wools

and all this black,

rakish smile hidden away

in a back pocket next to a wallet

that’s mostly just symbolic,

we head for that millennial dive bar

hoping the nosebleed seats

lack their usual sweat stains

and sorrowful middle age women

that are so fond of Springsteen,

but hey, they give me free shots

of well whiskey, which serves as a whetstone

for my blade of wit, which

exists to vanquish every friend who approaches

and wants to comment on my physical appearances

like I did it for them, folks

honest enough to admit that the rest of us

are just background, still, their heads shall not roll

because of childhood agreements,

those peace treaties of the past.

As for you, I suppose you could have

stayed home, or crept across the rooftops

and just watched this show of force,

My dirty feet slapping the spilled drink floor

all off tempo and my paws pulling

at the off kilter top on a little countess,

but you make a good alibi,

conversation, and walking stick,

a compass to my heart

and the mask I’ll wear

In the two AM revolution.

Asking for a Friend

What is one to do when

Their insides, their kosmos,

Their chakra, boils over, leaking

Essential nutrients onto the hot

Coiled salamander of the post

Modern world, what is one to

Do when science and spirituality,

Who were about to kiss

And create alchemy, turn face

Last minute and leave the room

Empty, what is one to do

When every snare, line, and

Plan only bears old boots

And heavy clouds, what is one to

Do when the tide becomes too

Clingy and the moon decides to go

Find itself another planet?

 

 

Notes #5

Notes #5

I met a girl last night, wearing a floral print dress

And gauze around both knees.

Jill fell down a flight of stairs

While intoxicated,

Dulling herself up for a night out.

I don’t think booze was always the bastion of hope

For disconnected introverts

That it now is.

I met a girl this morning, wearing a hospital bracelet

And a confused face,

Wondering how she got a MIP and her stomach pumped.