Food Court; The American Dream

The lady with the Chanel purse
and the overripe belly
filling quickly with Mickey D's
Counterfeit, counterfeit like her purse
Most likely, most likely
Big Kids Meal? I doubt that my dear
Though you are big you are no kid
But suppose you are? Suppose I give you that?
Then the world would make the most sense
The Food Court world
of choices and choices
Ways to blow your money and your time
To spread the filth of the American Dream
Sitting snugly in your bellies
Overblown with our constitutions lies
Do you even know these words Chanel?
Subliminal messaging shoved down
Like there's a secret telegraph in the
Clanging of grease fryers, ranting pixeled TVs in HD
and questions of "only for a dollar more?"
Plastic and serene ignorance
The bliss of our lives here; Controlled by our choices
Only for a dollar more you whore!

To the Putting Out of Innocence

Drink up, drink up
To the putting out of innocence
Smolder like the eyes of
the blind whore

Rose that withers but ne'er dies
Stagnant and reeking
Reeling in the open breeze
Concave like
the breast of that whore
Ripping with past hands
of flesh coiling round
the life that once breathed inside; putting out that innocence

But no more, no more
Only sorrow and pricked wind
And chaff between
the cheap legs of that Wonder
That wander o' nights alone
searching vainly for her innocence

The Spirit Breathes

Watched as the umbrella
Blue and stripped white
Bent and dismissed
Disarmed of it's routine home
Scrapes gravel and black greased pavement
Towed over and back again
Abused by authority

Lawns spout out their normative song
A rhythmic spray like cricket legs
But notes fly further
Pivoting seed and spray

Leaves scuttle
Like mindless drones
A mad ballet orchestrated
Instantaneous and unawares

Trees bow in a submissive dance
Dipping low to a backbreaking depth
And yet and yet sustain the beat
The rhythm like a spastic sea
All spindled and spun
Our bodies breath
Sharp and startled

The Spirit breathes
and we see the storm
The beast just outside our fragile
windowpane, glass
Placid swaying shift my guts to glorify
To honor the living God who 
claims the beast
The treat of terror
Clothed in reverence
The skies move and I remember
I am small
Fed to the beast if not for grace
Grace, grace resounds
Sweeping across the terror of the night
Night green beast of forestry

Lamenting leaves
Foliage chaffed and thrown by the hands of God

Philosophy of Moths

Sitting on the porch with a gin and a smoke
I felt the wisps of breeze and soft drifts of pitter and pattering rain
Out of the corner of my eye I say a flicker of wing
Rapid and madding, monotonous and confusing
Simple
And I realized I adore the philosophy of moths
They flutter like a heart beat
And they beat and beat and beat with life
Like life they are content with the stream
the constant pitter and patter of wanting to feel alive
They never give in never stop their clinging
To walls stuccoed and crushed;crushing
they sit atop the surface with fragile wings fabriced with veins and wait to start again
They are content with this and with the pulling and tearing at fabrics in closets
They pull and pry not realizing what they are doing to others
to their dreams of nice sweaters
All those nice sweater dreams and ideas of moving to Paris and putting lonesome on the Shelf
Maybe they were ripped away by the flutter of the moth just living to beat life
In the same way they throw themselves at the flames of the world
I am not sure if they are unaware of the consequence
the ironic wit and saying they inspire by being mercilessly drawn into their demise
But I'm not sure I would mind
The philosophy of moths seems safe in a directly ironic way
They consume or are consumed
Destroy or are destroyed
Either way they live

The Tree of Life

It spurs from nothingness
Rein, rein
Poured over time
Fleshed out/Sour milk
Feeding tenderly
On the sad ballet
Tiptoed and bloody and botched
Take hold or take flight
Stain glass sprite
Shaken and splintered
Broke down doll
Darling dear, dear love of love
For love's sake
And still and still
We cry out the pained breath
At both beginning and at end
We wither, weeping willows wallowing
Bubble like corrosive flesh
Like sour milk
We are, we are