this pencil staining hands with lead
fog horn of broken ship distorting perfection of ocean of tears and determination
stepping off a shuuddering bus, the exhaust pipe stinking up the air to add to the thick gray pollution and finding the piercing cracks of once beloved trees bending and breaking at the cruel hands of those "just doing their job"
that last black bulbous dot ending favorite thoughts and warm faced dreams
the grayish horizon deepening the sky full of chill hopes fresh for the taking
closer to the peach and tan scales of each finger from dry air and unhealthy lifestyles
wind also sweeps through heat-ridden landscapes of death and desolation
past the edge of a mirrored hand
clinging thorns and needles prick to bleed
cold light behind you and dark warmth ahead
controlling gentle hand on the back of neck
cold light behind you and dark warmth ahead

uncooked god of greed and passion

"the indians. my god, here come the indians"
-player piano

solar powered future
brilliant splashes of canary yellow
enveloping hungry glinting metallic panels
velvety night goes on and on
and on
outstretched blue-gray hands
melting to vibrant puddles
pulsing green energy
colors radiate heat
from every pore
heat enough to wake you up
with the sun seeping into heart, soul, mind
and you open your eyes, refreshed
with new realization
and always new hope.

apathy
bleak lines
stretch across an open empty desert
to feel this
through numb fingers
bleeding eyes
but i feel nothing
and nothing
and more
watch those golden forms
brbeathing pure breath
crying gray, salty tears
they will open their arms
and i will wave goodbye.

Here lie the bones
Of some celestial body
Broken by faith
Faith of God
But not of Man
For this corpse to be
Re-animated
There's no need for truth
And falsity won't work either
All it needs
Is a little whisper
Or the voices of a thousand
To say what no one expects to hear
Because there is a little God in all Men
But little Man in God.