O, Arcturo

O, Once Great Arcturo,
take us under your existence,
All August Arcturo,
we hark a hound of distance,
and sleep 'neath split verses.

O, Unremembered Arcturo,
take us into the dead expanse,
Our Atrocious Arcturo,
let us mutter a spark advance
and come alive to intersperse.

Of our kind offerings
we become all consuming hate,
Of a righteous offering
we become a fury to uncreate
that we shall carriage down.

Of tempting offerings
a cosmos pas' time to expire,
Of dreamt other things,
this macrocosm of feeding fire
tho' we shall spark to drown.

O, Unremembered Arcturo,
take us into the dead expanse,
Our Atrocious Arcturo,
let us mutter a spark advance
and come alive to intersperse.

O, Once Great Arcturo,
take us under your existence,
All August Arcturo,
we hark a hound of distance,
and sleep 'neath split verses.

Brisk Motions

We teem with brisk motions and fill
full to the brim of null notions
that pull or kill any sense at all
to recall missed emotions now dull.

We deem those undoing with a doubt
and a curse in spite very necessary
to a cause about to take the night
from worse men that we might bury.

We seem to stand still in assurance
and a word could kill unless banned
in the third world that we assure you
can dance for less reason than you do.

We teem with brisk motions and fill
full to the brim of null notions
that pull or kill any sense at all
to recall missed emotions now dull.

The Source (revised)

Slipping dread and awe and undoing
each thought, each measure reviewing
until the placement of your doubt
slips and leaves you with no way out,
fallacy and fright plague the present
until you condone time not well spent,
until envy and disease become words
and anyone, anything else preferred,
silence, then, takes its own course
and you decide to destroy the source,
an action defined and lacking virtue,
but then, that was always you...
wasn't it?

You cut down man with your tongue
by justifying facts others have sung,
you slip a speak never harsh to break,
but a force of habit is now at stake,
you open wide letting loose the tide
to cause a rift to ensure we divide
and walk ways away without a word
which was always what you preferred,
silence and satisfaction, no remorse,
and you decide to destroy the source,
an action defined and lacking virtue,
but then, that was always you...
wasn't it?

That was always you...
wasn't it?

Halfway between Alaska and oblivion

I see the sea as a blanket field of red ruby and blue sapphire armies, oceans of men that consume each other. The entire view sky rests within your eyes, and your hands conduct only an empty stage. Pass the toast of wine and pour into the streets. You are the conductor because you built a house on sand and set this ship in motion. Keep asking all the wrong questions. No one lied to you more than yourself. This city is on the brink, delaying its time before it sinks beneath the dark and the murk of decay. Now the hand connects to the heart halfway between Alaska and oblivion and there is no longer any accountability in this city. You kept all of the promises you never made. If this ship ran ashore, we would never even notice. We are too busy calculating the wind and mapping the currents and raising the sails and being overcautious and overzealous for calm waters and too damn stubborn to smash though the hull. None of this will matter or make a difference if we never hoist the anchor holding us here. We are just dead weight in sunset in Salt City. It is time we take drastic action. Let's be dramatic. Let's engage mutiny. Let's jump ship.


Or, let's clock in. Let's do lunch. Let's forget I said anything…
halfway between Alaska and oblivion.

Walkaway

I open doors decorated in stained-glass windows and brass finish;
stone archways over hallways that always meet in the middle;
walkways that last only as long as the center allows them to be.
I open doors that are never locked and never have a reason to be,
and I walk hallways that always end but never meet at stained-glass windows.