Misandrist

Sometimes she seems
every other woman I meet
she carries it
like Atlas
The Chip
it digs
into her
shoulders
her back’s bent from the weight

She’s hiding it in her
left hand
behind her back
keeps
sharpened
prepared to
wedge between ribs
thrust under shoulder blades
plunge straight to heart
when he least
expects

She’s claiming
she doesn’t even posses
this terrible
athame
this bright
flame
this forever
hunger for vengeance
this deepening
sea of rage

She fools
most
with her hiding
her denials
her love songs
her stories about ones
she reluctantly gave herself to
they don’t see
she never gave
anything
they’re all
lies

The Blade always
revealed in end
after The Costume ball
her glass slipper
returned
she’s in tattered clothes again
mopping floors
with a weak torn rag on her knees
for her wicked stepsisters

If she wants
to rid herself
of that evil thorn
(and she doesn’t)
she’s going to
have to dig deep into herself
this splinter has worked
its way to the bone
she must rend the flesh
to get at it
this won’t be pretty
(and she thinks
she must remain pretty
at all times)
she’ll need to take off
that mask
expose her true face
reveal her wickedness and nakedness
open The Wound
and let in

That which she fears
most

A man

Not one of those
babymen
she usually seduces
a man bubbling
with testosterone
with love of women and rigor
honor
truth
commitment to stay his course
hold her tight
unflinchingly
as she
roots the soil of her heart
for the dis
ease
and it won’t
be easy

She’s not
ready
nobody is or ever wants to be it’s not
the sort of thing one
desires
welcomes
seeks out

Not until the longing
lack
hunger for
what’s right
boil over

Flood her eyes
with the tears
of knowing
what a bitch
she can be

As his are

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Full Spectum

In the temple of her skin
even beams of light bend
shadows darken as
brightness bursts

Some say the true path
moves only forward
some say it moves back
again
but there is no beginning or ending to our
circle
it has happened be
fore and will a
gain

In the cathedral of her hair
thunder of her perfumed
scent
rumbles within silence
and memories
revived
inspire
sweet agonies

Why
always this double-blade
an indivisible spectrum of light?
Where is my prism?

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Sense Haiku

An all seeing eye
eats voyeuristically
sweat beads off my skin

Deaf ears desire sounds
lovers’ thighs on silken lies
between night’s creatures

Where hollow fingers
drum forth tight wrapped visions
lost fire touch now please

The nose finds it first
swimming winds sexscented lust
all inner gears turn

Snake tongue curls with hiss
suffocates victim on sheets
forgets eye memories

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Re: Current, Knight, Mare

The dream waits
on plate
half
eaten
and eye
consume it a
gain in mourning

Each eye
swallows
each
vision

Later
on evening’s shore
you see the
momentary
eclipse
waver over
my stone
face

The dream
squirming in
side
echoing eyes
is
immortal
immemorial
eye just want
to kill it
stabbing
flesh
again and a
gain

I want to tell
instead eye see
and say
nothing is
wrong [meaning right]

Write
written
Drive
driven
Life
live in
losses
never leave
dire
dream drilling
stake
between ribs
twist turn
cardiopulmonary
exacerbation

Love
love in
locked
in

Sides
tops
bottoms
backs
fronts
make a box
twogether
contain
the Knight
Mare
Hair
on fire
bubbling
flesh
burns
water rushes be
neath where only
eye
escape
the image
again
awaken
sweaty

The dream
alive
squirming
half
eat
en
in
more
ning

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ReBirth (or PastImperfect)

or Past ImPerfect

You slyde swiftly down soft throats of unthinkable unsinkable complexity hunger…forget forgot forge what answer too question…reach back dark dusky dank searching four your self shelf where you left it…in dreams sometimes you remember who you once were…but that li(f)e is over…your eye bleeds as you try to see but it is beyond sight sound scent…you can’t even taste or feel now.

You wait wonder full of wishes dye like sweet flowers on an apple tree birthing fruit…deep in their scenters seacrets spelled in seeds…you cannot unlock those forbidden seacrets…consume daily still miss tree eludes you.

Where is apple wine you ordered…when will it arrive…but then when it comes you get drunk…melancholy mysteriously appears soulitude by her side casting silent spells over your sole…clouds crowd your visions all so meaning less as you scrape at your skin trying to remove hate lonely fear self-loathing.

Death’s mask staring from mirror’s reflected side reminds you success built on cadavers…islands of memory rise out of murky depths…recalling your dead selves you murder this one.

When you awaken new day new self at last, but always carry scar tissue dead weight…searching for you…you find your self replaced by your self no way two turn back into past (im)perfect…not even see it know it run your soft hand over it again…for it is

Dead

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Insomniac

Sleep never comes
the lonely man
the lonely hour.
A demon could
keep in front of the sun,
and still
without sleep.

Dreams
run through days
playful kittens, out to
make mischief. My head
hums to the tune
moves cross my ceiling
each night.

I’ve heard there are people
who bring fires
to the woods.
Sometimes, on a spirited path
I feel them
watch me
with headlight eyes;
crouched bodies
shaped as
hounds.

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An Ode for Timber Wolves

I

The day is soon
her lonesome
song calls
up sun

she calls earth
to turn
brings her body
full of movement
into dawn

mate at her side
they sing the
song of blood.

II

On fluid haunches
they bound
through the snow

the pack owns
this ice-capped tundra

commands the slicing
of the wind.

III

They thirst for
a scent
drink of it
thick in icy breeze

they howl
of the kill once more
call
on the pack
a chorus of bloodsong
rising
on tundra

They sing of this
moment and a
place to kill.

IV

The pack dances
together in
noontime sun

they howl
of hunts
before
today
and to be

she follows the leader
the pack
strides onward in hungry procession.

V

They close upon
a slowing moose

Teeth bare
her mate lunges at
flanks

tears raw blood meat
brings the great beast
to ground
staining
snow
scarlet.

IV

She returns
with meat
feeds
the pups
cries the song o
f the hunt

moans
of scarlet snows
blood of beast
returned to earth
she sings of tundra
hunger
the fall
of black
black
night.

VII

In the empty
headed night
as the pups huddle

to her breast
in the den

she opens her ears
to hear swollen sounds
of darkness:

an old man’s
death throes
the cries of a
newborn.

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Fever

My body
a diseased
motel in Wisconsin.

Cold dark liquid
settles in blood
Sweat squeezed tiny seeds.

Lemon clenched in fist
My sour lips have
already slain dawn
Never rise again you yellow beast!

My head will heat the world,
supply energy.
Fill my mind.
An empty pocket
in my jeans.

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