Production Lines

A killer resurrected
On carnival streets,
Arrested, re-sentenced,
By wigs weighing meat,
Though fogs are a prop
And a juror’s asleep.
In the filmmaker’s lens
Victims aren’t heroes,
The victims are missing,
Their paycheck’s a zero.

Each vision has errors,

Ruptures and holes, Boxed set collections, Out from death doled.
Dear Mr Producer,
What good is your lesson,
Your replays reduce
Any sanctified blessings.
You’ll profit in pounds
And buy your new houses,
From parental lost souls
And bloodstains on blouses.

Song Of The Sand

A grain of sand I did not own,
On a beach I did not know,
I kindled in my hand like sticks
Until it turned to blood and stone.
From stones there scattered
Seven pebbles, seven roots
Within the middle, and
From those roots did climb a devil;
And I did see there shoots of growth,
Of Time Above, and Life Below.

Skulldugerry and his mistress,
I have seen foul play;
A body in a brazier,
A human with no name.
They brushed their hair,
They drove to work,
Wedding planners,
Dividend perks;
We can only feel rain falling
When our eyes are blind as worms.

A bison-shaped cloud shifting
Dispersed the holiday crowds;
I was alone on the beach again
Wishing to breathe new life
Somehow, yes, through my hands,
But all that remained was the loss
Of the waves, and song of the sand.

Hallmarks

Where do they go?
Soaked in grief,

I walked to the valleys
On a road with two.

Hallmarks, a white van,
A lost dog still howling

While as dead as the moon;
There is no end, no, not soon.

For years, insomnia grew
As empathy clotted

In violets and blues.
An empty bed, a job or two.

Some returned later,
Much more as survivors,

Adults and artists,
But all were haunted

By what men might
And some indeed do.

A Penitent Thief

Out on a limb with
A twelve foot drop,
A man stopped by
On his way to the shop.

Ravens for feet,
Rain in my teeth;
My blood in the mud
By a road that’s beneath.

I can see further
Than I’ve ever been,
Flooding the fields,
A tide’s coming in.

I looked through your eyes,
The eyes of my lord,
And I was appalled
By all that you saw.

A blind woman cried,
Malodorous skin,
A crowd on the roadside
Makes bets for my sin.

My ribs became food
To nourish a thought,
Out on a limb with
A twelve foot drop.

Welcome To Washington Heights

The pimp is my manager,
He says he is my Fantasy;
He says I like it when he hits me,
This is not make believe.

When I was six or seven,
I dreamt of fairy castles,
Now I bleed three times a week
And take my alcohol.

I find comfort in his violence,
That’s what he said I thought;
Trouble doesn’t have a pitch,
I don’t associate with people

Any more, but him.
I must be happy for clients,
I am a Texan cargo train,
I am the Houston skyline.

He gives me warnings
Not to go on the run,
Sometimes punches me too much.
A room incarcerates

With sheets of shallow pink
And I think there they all go
On the freeway with
Their health insurances

And bungalows with lawns
Neatly mown; in time their cars
Turn on these headlamps,
Light up the furthest wall.

Argosy

Bootleggers, bandits, floggers and touts,
Bedlam bankrolls crime which sprouts
And flushes fulsome flouters out.

Those entrepreneurs earning
From public grief and yearning;
No one in a grave is turning.

There is a reality discrete
Where with humanity we will meet;
I’ll prepare the argosy fleet

And see you there on Sunday.
The looters’ lot we will repay,
Kindness diverts the Doomsday.

Blood Moon

The moon burned, we bled sympathies
For perpetrators, not the victims in blue;
Producers spewing documentaries
Given a sentence or two.

A fish becomes amphibious
When the new lot beat their wings;
No one else knows innocence,
Toothlessly he sings.

Tell me there are bronze scales still,
Should I list what they did and do,
The dead are photographs on a windowsill,
While the assailing say their voice is true.

They put me in the hollow trunk,
Roadside-dumped me far from home;
They raped me in the second bunk,
I mapped the sites in a honeycomb.

They extracted my teeth,
Kidnapped adolescents,
Converted the legends we rest underneath,
Made palatable into senescence.

Brazier smoke, unspooling a roebuck,
Parole will be kind for the killers;
A pick-up truck, and out of luck;
Beyond the grid live caterpillars

Gorging purple thistle.
Fist-pumps, fireflies in a lamplight,
A night without edge is nonfissile,
Losses form a cancerous white.

A story is born with two sides, a digon;
Truth abstains, falsehood flashes incisors;
Stay away from the bar, creek and siphon,
Unwatched adverts employ fewer divers.