Derelict.Life

How does the flower grow? When no one says: “Here’s how.”

Chances are, you have seen my bike And the thief it rolled away with. Now I endure the urban hike My seat with nothing to tone it. I couldn't pull the arm, you see My ride caught in a keystone wedge Even the driver failed to be The one to gift my strength the edge. With no heroes to save the day Damn bus carried my wheels away. So pull my bike from yellow claw Our mayor's throne is yours, bus law.

Flood, flood, flood out my fingertips Into a dazzle of flowing wine Galloping thick and leggy, A soft, rolling heat girds And swaddles, this vessel ripe for A tap and a silent adventure That roars across chasms until We both have departed. Floating along, phantasms of ascent Curled into a wave and laid on a shorey bed.

And lo, there was no fleshy pop More eggshell crackle and peel. We knew what to expect, then, A hollow chamber of chosen echoes Where borrowed cloaks whirl and commingle Under a silver claw. We each spy our cloth, worn Yet untainted by the chameleon carapace. He walked under sodium eyes in search of a chest. Inside, it read This is how you shine a light.

Hero stares at knives and orders soft egg. Hero staggers, falls, and orders soft egg. Hero grows roots among windy whims. Hero summons wind for storm or sail. Hero starts an orphan, becomes a state. Hero cajoles scar tissue forth. Hero jumps, leaps, flings, flies. Hero grieves, grovels, rocks, pleads. Hero wears the costume of grim. Hero knows how the story ends.

Hey there. Are you with us? Someone’s here to see you. She doesn’t look, doesn’t look.

When Mary came to town, she said, Forsake all gods but one Kneel before, praise and worship The Mother, not the son.

Termites slough wings Surrendering mortal coil To love's eternal mantle. Mark here a sacrificial agape — It will happen again Turbulent, swirling, and rabid fall Sleep in Oberon's wood Without a Puck to bid them wake. Wings helicopter above me. Naked I sweep the loveshook Rattling husks in neat piles. A reclamation. A statement of love.

When Tammy and Case split I heard all about it on Facebook and remembered the trip we all took to Vallarta and part of me wished aloud that I had pushed myself into the pool of the Cascada and self-baptized in its doggy water to be born again, a fresh American in a foreign land.

My daughter was building a pencil fence when I found out my brother was dead. The fence's gate was orange — various sizes foraged from cushions and drawers, perpendicular to her knees. Spiked. Pencils formed the perimeter, running tip to tail in a thin membrane, with a gap on the east end that was still under construction. The gate was the origin, that was clear, the rest seemed perfunctory — as if her ornate vision for the gate had sapped creativity for the rest of the build. In spite of this, I picked up a pencil and laid it along the fence line, broadening the width of the south face. A lamp, shadeless and illuminated, felt harsh considering everything. An insult to loss. I switched to darkness and laid my phone outside the sharp and shadowy gate. After receiving her blessing, I sat next to my daughter and we closed up the east end as my phone lit, lit, lit.

Sun dapples the hay bales Uncovered in the dry heat. Stravinksy's birdsong Cleaves the non-silence Of tidal water lightly Slicking polished stones. A mossy rock exposes Its hump in the low tide Sucking in air before it Submerges. I breathe too And long for the beckoning Anonymity of the city. Nature, so large a force It strips me of my anxiety And flayed, my body winces From kiss of seabreeze. I long for the mournful Call of the midnight siren.

Powering one orbit. See us in the night’s sky.

My heart is torn For I want for nothing But the inspiration of A well thought mot, the First mental domino upon Which I reflect and Strain — until it tumbles Out my pen. And then? Am I the photographer That captures human atrocity Without hindering its progress? An objective scientist of Human caterwaul and glory, I rescue no one but myself And, even then, it's only for a moment.

We used to have them. Some were splendid to behold — Shades of red, orange, purple, Nut's firework salute to Ra Others were muted, metal, A passive slip into darkness. Then we rarely had them. Storms ravaged the land Dust and ash filtered out all light. There were calm days Where we'd watch the sun Descend behind peak and plain Kissing the cauterized earth — Balm to a mortal wound. Then there were no sunsets. Just swirling ashen clouds Seeping into and scratching at A grey, gloomy world. That's when the megastorm arrived A collision of forces that had Tilled continents, wed for destruction. The world, pulling it's own plug. The eye of the gyrating eschaton Spanned half the globe. And in the erumpent calm: We saw the sun. It was radiant! A god Redeemed — Burning passionately As it began it's dive into The horizon. The last sunset. The world exploded with Color and the sky was Streaked with auroras of delight. We brought out talismans And foods we had kept. Symbols of hope and former Semblance of life. Licking syrup from a peach can We watched new color blooms Tumble into each other like Watercolor lovers. Earth's chosen held hands Staring in wonder before the Final plunge. The last dip. As the warmth departed A flash of emerald brilliance stole out. The final farewell from our sun. And after a prolonged stretch The world tears itself apart.

It’s too late now He should have worn Crampons, Iron Maiden slippers Oh well. He slid slowly, legs in front Feet planted for purchase. Ungranted. Hands point opposite Pressing slick cedar grain Musty and lichenous. He is arachnidic to behold Not enough limbs. Soon, the precipice. Heel strikes aluminum Skips off into abyss. Toe catches, flips him into A reluctant dive. One hand Flails to clasp a lifeline gutter. Pop goes the bolt in Double time rat-a-tat And his plummet arcs. Pre-terminal, his organs Rise — feet pencil the air. He flies past a gaping love Rushing downwards To spike the turf.

That slippery Slope was never Slick. Failure isn't Pre-scripted. Those tenuous ties Are forged by lies And strengthened by Fools who agree. But you are no Fool. Still, late at Night in the pale Cell light. Panic. If their logic Is tight and the Prophets are right. Then goodbye soul. Until they board You up and lay You down. You live! Incinerate. We are truly Born dying if We trust others Over ourselves. There is no slope. You are not slipping. Live and love with A fistful of quarters.