when the outworld was my home 
i knew the smell of evenings 
spent by lakes still wild and 
full of unmapped feelings yet 
but soon to be known by one 
intrepid scurillous adventurous 
made of heart and granite and 
powered more by sugar than 
forethought or any other kind 
of blue-green wonder or sped-up 
thoughts of what a drive-in 
movie must look like when one 
is there to be with someone who 
wants only to be there with you 
who read these lines and know 
the red and gray awaits and 
eventually your pillow becomes 
your prison

we the fallen rising stars 
of wonder, stars of 
stage and screen 
tests passed with secret notes 
of oak and vanilla and pine 
tar beaten out of 
time 

breathed our last 
measure of devotion 
to the cause 
and effect 
change in the world 
order that sank into 
an immense heart of darkness 
falls upon the land 
of the free and the home of 
the titans
who we no longer

remember

among pine green afternoons comes 
a fleeting realization 
almost whispering at first 
that power not first used 
to restrain itself 
will corrode all 
it comes into contact with 
and even more 
its source

good fortune breeds bad omens 
bad omens give birth to poor endings 
which make for good stories 

unless you are in them

he flashed across her urban sky 
shattering worlds and expectations 
borne on an unknown wind from 
a little-known direction 
and she finds herself missing 
the storm itself with all of its 
wanton and destructive power 
as though just being a thing that 
can't be ignored is 
all she ever

really wanted

does the once sky sing into darkness 
the light of revelation 
upon the cold ears of the uninitiated 
still holding blankets 
of snow remembered and yet to come 
into an existence marred by 
cloud-forms freer than tethered
yearnings buried in mulch 
made from days wasted in nothings 
that seemed so something

back when he 
ran faster than his thoughts 
spilling into storm drains 
and knocking down trees 
came a silence after 
now unfound 

he doesn't get wiser 
he gets more covert 
like a squirrel trembling 
as a cyclone roars through 
what experience has taught 
is permanent 

but experience lies 
like he does every time he 
lets loose of the stray balloon 
of his thoughts once held for 
the fascination of their novelty 
now ground into insincerity 
like fine powder turned to 

muck

you were behind a screen, always. 
  and I 

  wrestled with demons, wondering -- 

 what is this secret she hides? 

who is 
       this person that she talks to 

  in 
     the 
         hidden places, veiled

within the lakes of 

                    your true desire

 the texture of the teeming earth
 is all the proof we need of lies;
 each second thought, a second birth,
 the sun, a way to cauterize
 the wounds that we inflict amid
 the casus belli of the day:
 the wager, always underbid,
 the silence, all we have to say.