The Cat

The floor started creaking
when the cat peeked inside
the cradle with his butter eyes.
Pavement walls his house now.

He skirts from post to post along
the moonless highway to avoid
the eyes of the curious throng.
The cat can’t sleep motionless.

Grudges haunt the cold air
and the cat just wants a doorstep
to rest his weary coat upon.
The familiar red door now holds in wails.

If perhaps a snippet of hope
came to cross his winding path
then maybe the cat would still his tail.
Once more his butter eyes would glow.

Icelandic Sun

Shavings from glass I traced a
screwdriver across glittering in
the sill of a peeling windowsill.
Rainbows play on the paint.

A sheet of glass, covered in etches
and now rendered entirely useless
except to obscure visions on the other side.
The brittle curtain lies dormant on the floor.

Somehow I know the colors are
all that I needed from this seemingly
deranged project I made for myself.
If only the sun could remain forever.

I hear wind chimes, and I see golden waves
stretching into an endless horizon.
The wind whips my clothing around as if
I were covered with miniature flags.

I see panels hanging in the air ahead
and they are all opaque glass squares.
I add the ruined window to the collection
and it helps to obscure this panorama.

So many paths extend from my hairs.
My rusty colored top twists in the breeze.
This Icelandic sun paradise is fleeting.
The sun speeds to the Earth and night swallows me.

The bits of glass hurt if squeezed too tightly,
but I am not foolish enough to allow them
into my body; rainbows mingle not with viscera.
I decide to start recording my dreams.

Sally Swallowed the Sky

Sally swallowed the sky when
she wailed facing heaven.
An empty expanse watches me
from so high above, and I watch it.

Everywhere I go the trees have nosebleeds
and the squirrels are vibrating precariously.
The world is on edge, and at any second
I could find myself deep into the cosmos.

What ground I stand upon seems not
to move any longer, and the stills have taken
residence in every form of matter.
I can hear explosions and see static and everything is in a rushing spinning anxiety.

I am looking to hide in a place
where I can survive the tumult.
Doubt of my existence is pressing
upon my fluttering mind.

Slowly any hand reaches out and grasps the butterfly. The butterfly bats its wings and wriggles its body. Before any sort of victory can be had the world has caught on fire, and in these passions the hand and the butterfly are engulfed.

Tuck me into the roots of the trees.
I am afraid of everything else.
I need silence to engulf me.
I need to be far away from the empty heavens.

The Village

Secrets hide between the beams of
the houses and the trunks of the trees.
A village is a stagnant pool that leads
to decisions ungainly to a clean little world.

Society is a village; we swim in hushes.
Eyes darting to corners, and rolling around
like a stallion crazed from the storming skies.
Intentional whispers sliding through the cracks.

Ears are plastered to little holes where sound emits.
Mouths moving in time round the clockwork seasons.
We all sleep on a bed of lies, and only our dreams
can reflect the spilling over of our subconscious.

Young girl has secrets, but she buries them in her covers.
Her dolls turn away and her clock speeds up.

Peace and love jumble together in a mass of
ideals that spin reams of music from their bowels.

Daddy won’t unlock the cabinet because
there’s a shiny gun inside; who’s it for?

The reality hides beneath the waves of Windex
that marinate on every chrome surface in the village.

The village is so clean; the village is so pure.
We have flowers; ignore the broken teeth.

I can hear the wind whistling in the treetops.
She comes to blow seeds into the village.
She will react with surprise when her form fills
all of the crevices in our shadowy houses.

The Mannequin

Far beneath the green canopy
tangles of roots encase the wooden
mannequin who once played the violin.
He stares at the sky and wishes to be a cloud.

His words were honey that dripped
from his beautifully fashioned tongue.
Now all remains of his soothing speech
are crusty remnants, void of sweetness.

The animals crawl all along his lanky figure.
They whisper secrets in their passing, for
they know their words are safe in the mannequin.
All he can do is gaze into the sun wishing for fire.

If the world had wanted his songs
his fate may have been the dreams that
congregated in his hollow wooden skull.
Instead his mind is dimming like a candle.

In the shadows of his thoughts small beasts tread.
Entering through his ears and sleeping in the warmth
of his cognizance are the smallest children of the trees.
They still believe in his voice, and howl for him at night.

The mannequin has pretended to be human
for long enough; his fakeness is too apparent.
Sometimes the world recycles such individuals.
We are only real when we are serving purpose.

Subconsciously Bleak

Slowly dim the lights in the white
room where I spin like a toddler.
I cannot receive these sudden changes
and my mind becomes transient.

I can feel each nerve crackling like
fireworks exploding in a day lit sky.
When I sit still for too long I feel
my shadow moving without permission.

The door to the whites of your eyes
is creaking between my twitching fingers.
Such hinges are not meant to go both ways
but in aloneness I unleash fearful visions.

A rabbit calls me from a little green house.
I hear her breathing over the phone; panicky.
In a plane of wolves we are subject to these undertows.
Goodness seems almost like a fleeting thought.

Oh sweet kindness, please stop turning your cheek.
Consideration becomes rare, and we become friction.
Cycles stacked upon cycles like never slowing gears;
each one working to reproduce sensations selfishly.