Rendered Leaves

Sulfur lights candles on the altar.
Hands fold yellow, blue, and pink,
paper and pipe cleaner flowers,
drape intricate tissue cutouts
over edges of one soul’s journey.
Smudge some sage or cannabis
over a dusty favorite fifth
of bourbon, vodka, or tea.
Sugar skull grins, shows its teeth
to photographs and sweet breads,
to fetishes and wooden beads.
Black wax clings to aqua blue,
and children’s fingers track edges
and faces of memento-heart cakes.

It is the slow silent time after life.
Pulp yields to its yearly harvest
and mythology adapts a new suit.
Brief with moments of reason,
moments of sorrow and bliss,
she comes on like autumn.
Leaves drop like feathery tears
and then one-day, a strong breeze,
a random gale, and all are down.
Branches bare to sun and snow,
sleep the short days away.

Identity is vigor in moments,
the metrics of heat and history,
wonderment and fresh breathe.
The spark transforms and remains,
but self blows to dust in winter winds
like so many forgotten, rendered leaves.

slow whispers

Fog arrives with the fleeting sun
as a tempest of slow whispers.
Concrete lamp posts brace the mist,
gold bulbs pop the tick of the clock,
as a duty of light for the unfamiliar.

Far enough from the bay,
late crows circle and roost,
caw old friends to warm feathers,
gold eyes, black or brown,
beaks and squawks embrace
along the rank of the elders
and chat the happenstance.

Day is at its always end
open parenthesis to the present;
never future or memory’s past
only hard scrabble hunger
and the absence of fear,
to sleep through the night
and never dream of death.

Quiet, quiet, the rustle
fades into the scenery.
I watch and listen, quiet,
will my elders speak?
Will their whispers in the fog
banish the waking fear,
details in between (the future
and memories of the past).
Only the crows will visit Elysium,
deaf to what my elders never say.

small words

Small words and vogue winks,
friends and almost pugilists,
shot of vodka, whisky, or rye,
cheers, clink, clink, and salute.
The conversation begins, and
soon, all I am will take flight;
the noose is quick round my neck.

I’ll cross the line, go too far,
offend with rapier tongue;
two-step or twirl on the stool,
is an easy dance or swing.
First I lead then I follow,
give and take until
inevitable knots embrace
as regret and doubt are
consequence and contempt
for me, for you, for all.

Why does it always sour?
Our camaraderie and revelry
plunge to mutually assured
random acts of despair?
Then, farewell and convalesce,
in plastic wrap caves of plaster,
recycle temperate breaths
as the hollows blow in
on vehement invisible fog.

Smoke and Crackle

Between beliefs and sidewalks,
around corners and alcoves,
Indian summer and fog
sneak in on muffled steps.
A shadow more than history
from fresh abstract to old age,
the innocence of youth subdues
in subdivision and rational grids;
a suburb tame as tattered jeans,
more a feeling than a purpose,
more effective than form or function.

Autumn days of opiate rakes,
northern winds prick fervent leaves,
and whirls those resting peaceably
across curbs and asphalt, wither,
pooling in corners of common cause,
sloshing dry the memory of
a proclamation in destination,
a bonfire, brisk and rasping,
to and fro, to and fro;
as myths enchanted to the flicker
transcend to smoke and crackle.

murder of crows

on the wind
with a murder of crows,
time stops for a drink.

where relics float,
quiver reflections–
what might have been,
who should still be.

as water – cool, and clear
passes over tongues parched
from empty breezes,
along mortal wreckage,
hot, dusty, never-ending.

a smile returns in memory
and thirst induces desire
for flight, autumn bouquets,
and the touch of meaning.

on the wind
with a murder of crows,
time stops for a drink.