Let the Words

"I’m the yellow duckling." Cruel beauty. Jealous at heart. Snow that smothers young saplings Its tragedy that makes great art. Cruel beauty. Jealous at heart. She grins, breathing gray ghosts Its tragedy that makes great art. Boundaries broken, become her host! She grins, breathing gray ghosts Words babble and trickle by the brook Boundaries broken, become her host! Tumbling nights, empty morning looks Words babble and trickle by the brook Father’s Fury. Mother’s mercy. Broken. Tumbling nights, empty morning looks Time here is gray and unspoken Father’s Fury. Mother’s mercy. Broken. Snow that smothers young saplings Time here is gray and unspoken "I’m the yellow duckling."

If you were a dandelion flower how would you wilt? like all the rest? Fragile and weak, lost in these words A confusing prison mistaken for freedom Quick sex of spring brings freedom To these shivering acres of flowers dribble their seed on concrete prison floors. Caught in the wind, they'll wilt And wallow, with hard worthless words Stuck in a structure so fragile What feeds this pitiful fragile Growth? A sad hope towards freedom Where no one rules but your words? Has no one told you? You're a flower. Beautiful but brief. You'll wilt Like the rest. A cycle, called prison! We'll live and die in this prison. Together, inseparable and fragile Til the end. Here's where souls wilt Into each other. Passing this freedom Onto the next bright yellow flower They'll scoff at the seeds of our words Begging and searching for the right words, They'll whore themselves out for a prison Wet with dew, sprouting a different flower. The soil's all the same. Give into fragi

Let me devour your lips It twill not hurt, they are but Ripe grapes Fills my mouth with sour sweet pleasure That I Hate to love Soft crimson wine spilt slowly from Your neck and down Down Down Over your breasts, caresses your Ribs and drips among your thighs Please Stay awhile dear, dear Hands of Infinite jest, which find no place Afar off to wonder. Fingertips etch Your curves. A south summer wind Warms the skin, rouses The harbor of your envy With bitter lust do I wish to Wrap the world into a ball of Complete and enchanting passions Teeth and tongue Catches your neck and slips across Your collarbone, flowing past hills Of peaches to find the gateway to Life Is it so strange? Do not deny those thoughts of Moist grass, wet, and glistening by the moon Unpeeled oranges in the summer sun Squeeze and the juice, the pulp sweet but Bitter, rolls in the sheets of your mouth, runs Like sweat over your skin, stabs crowning thorns of Lust That which you hate to love.

Its the boy holding An Orange to the sky Its the girl biting A green apple, Yellow Daisies in her hair That bring bearded Preachers hot tears A golden rubied chalice Overflowing with bloody Blasphemy

Photographs are leaves fallen from Trees of society They pile up and we rake them into albums and books Perhaps it be better to burn them. All those smiles into the flame. Here's one! Forty four humans compose the scene Forty three form a half circle One takes center stage All are men save two nineteen are indistinguishable stitches of woolen coats top hats and driver caps Five eagerly glance off, as if there's another camera Thirteen look into the lens Three among this group smile One man, a gaze unknown Straightens his tie Five muse toward center stage Four of them purse their lips thinking One among them, a boy of maybe ten, raises his hand under his chin making a curious open mouth smile The last human, center stage His Eyes were watching God He lay pretzeled around two By fours, with a broken oil Lantern by his side After he'd been shot and Mutilated his corpse was Set aflame, causing crests of charred flesh to form crusty ribbons across his body Welcome to Omaha, Nebr

“For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be earthquakes in divers places, and there shall be famines and troubles: these are the beginnings of sorrows.” Mark 13:8 March 27, 1964 - Good Friday - "the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake...And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose." Matthew 27:52 When the earth shook on the feast day of Christ's Resurrection, the rocky coast of the Kenai Peninsula and Prince William Sound were cast into the sea - dropping 3 to 6 feet. In Seldovia, Alaska, towards the southern tip of the Kenai Peninsula, notorious for its white washed boarded walk along the shore, most was drowned. Resident shops and homes were flooded. In time, people rebuilt, new homes erected, white washed boardwalks reestablished - memories of the rumbling faded into history as a quint suggestion of people's hardiness and the unfathomable c

I have pictures of this place. Stacks of pictures. All with a story of some sort. A woman walks down the sandy beach. She wears a long bright red wool jacket with a tan silky scarf. She's caught mid-gentle stride. In front of her lays the yawning blue Mendenhall Glacier. It glorifies itself with its own placid lake, making a mirror image of itself. Still. Somehow, Mendenhall manages to be humble, caught in the reflection of its own awe and breadth. The woman and the glacier. There is a history there. Deep Geological history meets my own shallowness. Two bicycles lay on either side of a muddied trail. There is a heavy blanket of moss and low lying bushes. In the background Mt. McGinnis and Mt. Bullard tower over and crowd in the candy blue of Mendenhall Glacier. Somewhere outside of the picture two friends speak of an up and coming wedding, the twists and turns of life - how it's always changing. A cool winterly breeze, stuck in summertime June, flaps alder and cotton wood leave

American people Don't you understand? Freedom is free! Stand here and watch As powerful kings bestowed by God shake hands and smile Cameras flash, smiles fade The buck is passed from Hand to hand Ideals of Christ are bought and sold. Brotherhood comes at a price American People Don't you understand? Freedom is free! Israel's screams echo In the halls history, collective suffering and a people's guilt becomes public policy Money changers sell humanity at the temples gates Democratic votes smell of Silver. A lot of thirty cast upon a hill of shame. American people Don't you understand? Freedom is free!