We Can Dream

Sleep is so sweet
And my bed is so safe.
The world is gnarled;
Puts its fingers in everything.
Death might be sweet,
But there is no waking up;
Part of the joy of a Sunday morning
Is going back to bed
Instead of fixing the toilet.
Instead of cutting the grass.
The dead get away with everything,
They just don't know it.

Ethos

Life is a lonely business of collecting
Things you will later lose,
Salting wounds so you won't forget,
Feeling the shoe only at the pinch.

There are wolves, they say,
Fighting inside us; let them bite.
The one that wins
Is the one you feed; feed neither.

Life is a lonely business
Of watching wolves die.

And Counting

Through a fat haze
Of post pubescent enthusiasm
I arrive at my 30's
Less sure than ever.
Where is that hard prick
And sharp confidence of 25?
Where is that bulbous certainty?

I could use a dad, god.
Might benefit from a hug
30's skins my heart
Whereas 12 skinned my knees.

Could I use a god?
Could I hollow him out and
Use him like a boat?
It's raining hard, dad.
Time to take the pills.

Satan

You've been in so many stories, old man.
You have been horned and hungry,
Horny for our unspoiled women,
Luring them away from their stoves
And babies with your nimble pan pipes.

You have been a tragic figure, a noble flame;
you have refused to serve when better to reign.

But most of all you have been my heart,
All jagged and surprised;
Full of pumping, spurting juices.

 Full of sin.
 Full of life.

Between Books

A new voice recedes into the collective
Mutating itself into the mob.
Echoes chittering for new connections,
Desperate for new relevance.

Being groans for another perspective:
"Give me new voices!"
Always hungry for new corrections,
As long as they are not one's own.