theanimalofgrimtimes.

The casino would survive an
atomic blast,
and cast its sycamore
shadow over all the cinders
of the city, glowing in the
orange sun Niagara the coast
of never ending apocalypse
would rise- a blue and cool
gaming obelisk
wide with wealth
and deterioration,
the so hardened souls would
inhale devastation
like Canadian fresh west air
and glow green verdigris
a copper so clear
a currency of love would flow from
their fingers like coins,
and caressed slots, all opened
and loose as the streets
asphalt melted and shimmering
sin in the
gloom shine off tar, all noon and
snowing the evening grows and i alone would
stand to record the last syllables of time
as the sky turns to stone, flakes
sharp as stars fall from frozen
obsidian, to tear the bridal veil
and inscribe humanity's name one last
time across the face of falling water.

cans and the past hand of pick up.

I am a man
defeated by art,
waiting for a woman to pull me up
and knowing the lush
velvet of my Niagara river
surly as her faithful hand
is pulling me under,
what else is there to do but compare
stones and apples,
hearts and hawks and handsaws
finish the roads out of here
with pea gravel and
hope for distant dirt roads
and pencils, and charcoals
to fill the afternoons
to look to the hand,
my hand to unburden the whole
earth of my consciousness, fueled
and twitching on caffeine and blunt rage
know each of these dark streets holds
its silver coin, its mysterious
relic that i should know, should
find and bring back to the glitter show, but
now i hold only blank post cards
to send out notes of regret, and
explanations for my abandonment.

away away away

whats lost again
in the shadow
of the
sun new-
as
the
clock
has been refreshed
by imaginations long
handled mindfulness
shoes linger near
the
door
waiting on
each increment of
the
bloated sun
to harden
in to a summer season
so the owl may again
fly against
the fat
mouse holding
out for the same
harvest as this
human man
wanting the days
of ease to reign down on
each one endless
spreading out
scattered like seeds
on the dinner table
the perpetual grace
promised
to us at birth
by lies, by our mothers lies
the famous orange
of sunset and pink like
bath water in adolescence.