I will not
Wear the Suit
I will swear
Against becoming
The Lackey
Of Apathy
If I must
I will put
Into practice
The Gentle Art
Of
Making Enemies

While tripping on daisies
In the pouring rain
Thunder and Flashing light
I saw the place
Where the glorious white moon
Which guarded the resting place
Of my ancestors by night
Used to be
And
There
In the darkened glen
Where the remains
Of my disemboweled compassion
Lay in ruins
A vine of thorns
Entangled my feet
Dragging me
Into
Oblivion
 

Too darkly
delicious
to
give in
to age
quietly broken
but
rather
go screamingly
old
and
may haps
not
so gracefully
bent

The Voice of Angels
Singing
Praises
And
Glory
And
Honor
And
I will never
Love her
I did
I love another
I think
She does
Likewise
We never talk
We both
Have memories
Of
Laughter
And
Singing
Along with the
Car radio
Loudly
And
Off key
And
Being intoxicated
By
Being ourselves
And
Old photographs
Are enough

 

The last
Flicker
Of the
Dying ember 
Faded
Into the
Blackened
Charred
Necrotic
Karma
That was
The only
Reminder
Of the
Exhilarating
Chaotic
Whirlwind
Of the
Anarchy
Which
Passed
For peace
In his
Life
 

The Ghost of Love
Distant past
Spoke to me
Over the distance
Making my
Soul smile
Making my
Hands tremble
Making my
Heart happy
And
Four hundred pound women
Sing opera
At
Birthday parties

The beggar
Dreams
Of nickels
And
Of dimes
And
Of quarters
And
In his
Drunken stupor
Of
The Angels
Singing in
Liquid choruses
Killing him