Tout le monde: nous sommes pretes.

Taste the anxious pursuit for the weak to end;
a fear of sleeping the whole night through.
To feebly grasp and live on lost time in nominal days
is the medium for this messaging trend.

A third of the hours you live free,
and often the rest is misery.
What is the difference between living
and waiting for death?

Look to the owl.

[H(a)i] Hop-(k)ins, hope yo(u) [(fare) (well)]

oafish eulogy

better get it in writing;

day-old muffin top

The Nation.

They come they go

as the tide, in and out.

Founded in desire to belong

a place to call out the word home.

But where?

Chasing the wind

to trod and scrape.

This soil will soon spit

out hard, unsupple nape.

Now here:

This is not yours to take.

It never belonged to a man.

Your heart is partial to sway

in such seasonal persuasions.

It is true,

Our descent brings no lasting rest.

No dot on a map

or plot of pasture.

The nomad can find peace,

the sojourner a safe haven

the visitor a warm embrace.

Remember to remember,

and find rest.

Ferry Man

 Ferryman

Brace your keening gaze between my lips.
See I've spit my silver, see I've spit my gold
and hang your shoulders lower, Nyx's foolish son
who chose a calling where no wage would pass your sight.

In your morning rise and take your ferry pole,
unlock the boathouse while your coffee cools;
your bark is smooth and baby blue; you wade
and guide her in that black and raging river.

No other sailor sends his boat so swift
as Charon poling on the river Styx;
he planes her prow across and guides her in
to where the hordes who died in sleep await.

Old ropes hold the ferry fast and on the dock
the register is set to whirring to recieve
the vaunted fee for souls, a single coin,
and ever Charon holds to foolish hope.

The elderly, the sick, the poison fed
all shuffle sheepish past his iron eyes,
they turn their pockets out and loose their pocket books,
but fail to find the price the ferryman requires.

Paper money, plastic cards, reciepts;
a man in silk pyjamas tries to pay by writ
and Charon shakes his head and motions him away
he sighs and asks "does no one pay with coins these days?"

The line advances through the hours apace;
the ferry sitting empty, waiting for a fare;
the ferryman is lowering his cutting sight,
but I approach (post future death) and call.

Hey ferryman, why play this foolish game,
why come each day to entertain this hope in vain,
why waste the time you could be spending on the water?
You know that all men pass a pauper to the grave.

ferry lady.

so ill prepared
for this life
trying to find all the boundaries

this winding road of blue over blue
brings closer a sinking feeling
maybe it is best to never be one, but two

a creeping codependency starts to setup
she said to me, "my insecurity is crippling"

this looming fear; more so,
the status quo,
it would seem we are all same at times, desperately lame
life <-----> flickers on an infinite screen

you did not pick me to be yours, everyday there is a choice
so sing along all old friends and new,
to the tunes you once knew
because they will still be there when you have no voice

even when all has faded from a memory
of the most obscure pages in history
this rumbling will remain.

i heard your record, it was alright
i saw your award, it was alright
i tasted your victory, it was alright
i held your treasure, it was alright
i smelled your wealth, it was alright

i sensed something amiss
though
all will fade into the sun
these decisions of any battle won

each whole is missing a puzzle piece that has yet to be found
it must be quite simple, maybe just shifting priorities around

as every other castle is a magnificent structure of sand
waiting to be slowly blown across this land

oh my love
hold fast to this embrace
as we can rest only in this perfect rhythmic pace.

Particular Evidence

We find cool places down
in crust crack narrow canyons.
River valley poplars weave and ebb

and this hidden river holds my interest.
It runs through shaded twists
and smells of must and mingled
blood on the tip of my tongue.

Light falling through these canyon walls,
profuses and obscures direction
so that that I could not claim
the water moves in both or neither ways.
And steady eyes are hard to hold on
any particular evidence.

It's waters feed two distant seas
both rich and warm of the great Northwest
and the wild, open tumult of the East
and I between
and ill at ease:

hear both raging, as oceans do,
hear salmon rush from continental shelves
then pulse beneath a single stream
thick, oily bodies colliding
and crossing paths in this deep bed.

Potent tension posesses.
I shut my eyes and bend to
touch dry skin to rushing water,
then ease my body in,
feel currents taking hold
and pull me racing down-
-river.

Rite

A new teenage mustache, almost apologetic,
two smudges of blond and a bald spot under his nose.

He rummages for a razor. Shaving cream congeals around the drain.
A stroke. A cool, clean lip. Ink-through-a-tissue blood, clotting.

A quick glance into the soap-scummed mirror, he smiles,
embarrassed and terrified.

He smashes a tissue to the space between his lip and his nose,
dots of blood filling in the ungainly space between boyhood and not.

His hands, trembling, are too big now, his head, feet, voice. Baby-faced
and crooning like a foghorn, deep but treble-cleffed.

He races on, suddenly impatient, whisks the shaving cream from his face
like milk and plays with the little kids;
shrinks away, too, though,
staring

three feet in front of him, where all
present uncomfort seems to cast out past pain. He touches
the spiky hairs,

checking a bruise. It hurts. To be a man,
he thinks, he'll use his big brother's Schick. He needs him to notice

his roughening, these strands itching downward
constantly, like fingernails.