Maritime Pickle

Without observation, the dormancy
Or tribulation and apartheid;
Every philosopher must disagree
We have not forsaken
The lost.

By the incoherent vocal substructures
Which issue forth
From the mouths of infants;
Each new phrase
Begets a universe
Of clarity.

Form and substance
Pressed around the mouth
Of a mother;
As her child drops slowly
And suffers.

Each press of a key,
Brings about its own
Destructive wind.

Mute Buttoned Blouses

Ghoulish things and pursed lips
To spout out inharmonic substance;
The gays accumulate their fashion,
While conservatives keep
Their fleet from sinking.

An amalgam;
Not processed
Nor plundered.

Angels in devil suits;
A paratrooper’s ovulation
In fornication, realization
Of uncompleted fascism.

Behave the way we took the skies,
When aviation, rocket ship formation,
Calcified and oxidized an iridescent wave.

Of discrimination.

Kings of the Incinerator

Blasted are the meek;
And in their homes the suffer,
Weakly wailing at their walls.

How consecrated
Their underpinnings and microorganisms.

When will they purge
All the pigs; swine divine;
Blasted are the poor.

Dung heap shadows
Cast on dirty linen sheets;
And the canvas speaks:

“Went to war,
Came to pieces;
Never trusted
Nor took
The wrong division.”

And we wailed “calamity,”
And took our son and daughter,
To the highest peak;
Slouching as the world
Went by.

Within the Mind of Zachariah

My body,
Projected on spheres too cold
To assimilate my transgressions;
Four walls but no floor,
An endless fall.

Bouncing off of clouds,
And night belongs to Venus’ daughter;
I hold my liquor down,
And onto grass,
As the purge whirls me
Into fornicating flame.

And in possession,
I remain

Healing my own name,
And forgetting the fall.

And no migratory sensation burns;
No flickering memory
Of another world,
My fears dictate
Only as lowly
As I sink with you.

Pull me out of this ionosphere.

Blue Thunder

Intox like a blinding
Night sky; apostrophe!

Zang beneath a melancholy tree;
Triumph at the opera house,
As lights dim and music fades away.

Three course dinner
At the amphitheater;
Mute doldrums
And Calliope’s laughter
After the second course.

The bill is in the pasta sauce,
And while we bleed in buckets,
Our own fears manifest
To one who does not know.