A seasonal allergy, or is it
life before the dream --
spreading wings just to be shot,
golden hammers slamming down
on finger pilons and little children's
favorite songs.

The colored beagles come and go
but in my heart I know that
no rhythm will set me free:
I am bound inexorably
to temporal earth's hostility.

I am not sad that sand
runs time down back alleys
and spews flecked shells
in my eyes --
Joy, at the prospect of finding
a precious stone amongst the ash.

She can't see what's happening
to me but inside it's chipped away,
a thousand paper cuts on my soul
bleed best intentions,
and dirt --

Have you ever seen skid blackened highway
marks trailing off towards the wall?

RVs parked casually on the edge of cliffs
teetering while humanity blows bubbles
made of sour milk and whines
mercilessly about reality TV and

oh my God can you spread silence like
butter across the mind of man?