grey day

man on a bench

tosses bread to the pigeons

with lethargic flicks of the wrist,

an end-of-the-day hunch

and bent bones that are

bothered and beat

  there is a hell relieved

  upon passing

  but what about this

  unfair season

  of decay

  the wilting before

  the final

  fall

man on a bench

gets up and walks away

pigeons scatter

things continue

fair or

not

little sinners

the things i’ve seen

do not hold up

to her

eyes

the icy greens and blues

of arctic waters,

but piercingly warm

thin lips,

perfect lips,

the lightest kissably pink

of lips

and off the slope

of unseasoned cheeks

in long slow shapes

of   S

her insouciant hair flows

  what it would be to

  kiss that dimpled chin,

  to nuzzle upon that

  pale neck and breast

  my thoughts are

  little sinners that

  run up to me asking

  if its ok to stay and play

  i tell them yes

  since they asked me

  nicely

  and she is surely

  someone we may

  never meet

my last Amen

you, damnation

my eternal punishment

the beads i pray upon

disintegrate before my

last Amen

the flowers i arrange

upon your altar

burst asunder

below your breath

i am bled for your demons

deboned by your butchers

thrown as scraps to Cerberus

  and you, who cares not,

  carry conflict as a shield

  to my weary resolution

deny me with malice;

  this speck of soul

  flutters away

  unsettled

returned

they say

the impact of love

will change everything

i lost myself

in the drowning sips,

the thin distance

between them

  i wanted to be

  a tiny poet

  in a quiet world

  in a stupor of

  vague existence

  but i’ve come home

  to your side

and what love is this

so strong and bright,

what gypsy wind

freed you upon me

with the daylight

dimming

and everything

changing

O, what love is this

one empty chair

i have a small table

i have two chairs,

  one is always empty

maybe she keeps me

in a book as a

single flattened flower

or

maybe she’s indignant...

our memories like

agitated hornets in her hair

i feel a certain blue

one that’s distant

one that deepens into

the gone of black

but i’m still as high as

the moon for her

and just...

and just as

stone-cold lonely

(“Conversation” by Zack Zdral on fravery.tumblr.com)

once was

once was the moment pretty,

our toes sunk into the evening grass

looking at you, feeling the forceful

pressure of love, like accelerating

the car into an incline, and just as

thrill-full

your voice arousing giddy, a sugar-

candy tingling high; in my palm i

squashed the tender flower’s

blooming for monstrously disrupting

the sweetest tunes of you

softness in your whisper, my little

mouse in a corner, said timidly to

me, come closer, enough for skin

here and skin there to giggle at its

first touch

falling for you was i, the child,

rolling down the hillside laughing, 

hair a mess, filled with leaves the

color of cheeks blushing, the

November sun sinking, and once

intangible bliss

i cannot explain

the misery of

not having you

my therapist, the/rapist

how many questions

do you want answered

these are statements

facts

periods at the end of

each sentence

and yet,

the hand holds the knife

prying at the edges of

this hermetically sealed

head,

a beggar starving for

food from the can

or

am i the whore

paying you

for this night

lying here vulnerable,

your favorite position

between

the answer... NO

and the next probing

question

when will you be

satisfied

when you say,

  time’s up

or,

  that’s all the time

  we have today

Cotard’s delusion

had you been alive like me

you’d have known

the death of all things

as your friendly equal

the smile hello

indistinguishable from

the smile goodbye

the dragged step

too shallow for shadow

the continuous exhale

the unfeeling

  i had fingers

  until i chewed them off

  i had a tongue

  until i pulled it out

  and now i have this

  unneeded heart

  dripping in my hands

i feed my

numb comfort

unloved

sleep into burial

at last, home

flood

i will cover her

flood the face

    with kisses

uncuff the rapture

    of a body

    held prisoner

    by the fear

    of letting go

and enter her

    slowly

    ever so

    slowly

enough to fill

    the empty

    spaces

    she has left

    open

    for no one

    in the world

    to see

    but me

rat king’s squeal

thoughts get tangled

as they scurry the field

in panicked directions

the only voice comes

as a rat king’s squeal

confused and desperate

between the layers

of disdain and admiration

that exist between us

the individual is lost

in amalgamated summaries

that somehow

rise to the top

classifieds and obituaries

artisan

god-like creature

shapeshifter

  ; but not one

    can bury the past

what’s your penance

preacher

alchemist

soothsayer

  ; admit your guilty

    ambitions

i need something

much simpler with

my morning coffee

i miss the newspapers

          the classifieds

          the obituaries

in black and white

what’s for sale

what’s dead

tendons and corrosion

the southbound lanes of the

bridge are closed

its worn out tendons have

given way

the exterior cracks and flakes

over the river

corrosion festers and is

staying for awhile

as do we, crack and flake

and wear away

our construction, flawed and

exposed, susceptible

the weathering will continue

in forms and fits

as must we, temporarily close

for repairs

glide

body mangled

by the gears and grinds

of sunrise to sunset

body consoled

in the night-song glow

of melodious moonlight

planning to leave

this body behind

on the next breeze-flight

soul undressed

of its soft skin suit

takes glide on the light

strap of a crimson dress

finger

touches neck

and slowly

moves to the right

strap of a

crimson dress

slides off a

shoulder

one gradual

whisper

acknowledges

tone

moon

     and breeze

                  curtains

                sway

       touches

              move

  slow

ly

charge me with

trespassing

and let them

take me away

but do not ban me

forever

from your heart

little skirt

it took her a while

to pick it out

and it would have

looked great on her

we just didn’t

make it that far

into the night

agape

love is patient -

  she waits for me like a

  mistress in a getaway car

  her foot on the pedal

  her lovely mouth agape

  she wants to kiss

  she wants to fuck

  she wants to steal me

  from the night

love is kind -

  kind of crazy, these

  random games we play

  she pretends to be Eve

  offering the apple

  i tell her

  sin is cliché

  and i am not afraid

  of anything forbidden

through the pines

goodbye to Sunday

and its musty mood

  now a puddle at my feet

piles of mulch that have

floated from the hedge rows

leave the aphids

and the spittlebugs

scurrying naked in

the landscape

through the pines

  like a laser through the

  eye of a needle

comes a thin stream of

sunlight

  a reminder of its strength

a gust blows the pines

and the streams come

abundantly

  from all angles

  from all directions

the beauty is overwhelming

silence on snow

Soon they will fall

the words of our storms

that gathered in puddles

drowning us out

soon they will fall

the words that dried

and left in separations

floating on the wind

soon they will fall

the words that froze

in altitudes above us

dead to speech

soon they will fall

as light as forgiveness

as white as the innocence

of silence on snow