When I died, I died in the saddle,

among the corpses of man, horse, and cattle,

death rained from above,

I cried out for my love,

and not once saw a glimmer of battle.

The motorist, complacent, relaxes;

the trooper, alert, collects taxes;

they both speed along,

on a prayer and a song,

pinned under the thumb of the fascists.

I as a youth fantasized of abduction

oft eventuating in suction;

the object of their ploy,

I was used as a toy,

and there was never a need for seduction.

I stand athwart your path,

and bear your sudden wrath;

tho but for me, I fear it'd be,

inevitably math.

Oh lovely city:

your twinkling lights and pulsing

joy over-awe me.

The familiar

voices, faces and gestures

bring sweet memories.

Why is there beauty in blindness

and ugliness in knowledge?

Why is it I can't see the flaws of

my closest friends, while the foibles

of my relatives and enemies are

salient and manifest? Am I so

imperfect? What am I missing?

King of the Snow Hill

Often Degenerated

Into Bullying.

Five hundred thousand

years will herald completely

badlands' erosion.

There is a feeling of stark terror

that comes from falling headlong.

All of the sudden, I'm moving too

fast; landscape rushes to meet me.

Essentially blind, my body goes cold

and rigid. My blood runs like slush.

I have felt the cold hand of death

wave across my head like a blessing.

Dry concrete lends itself well to

taking traction for granted.

It's when I hydroplane,

or float through slush that

I recognize how very little

I am truly in control.

The wheel turns, by degrees,

and there is no control: slippage.

The edge of panic creeps in

and I overcompensate.

The spinning wheels rev

and bite. I lurch back once again

into complacency.

Desert sky at dusk,

winter shade of indigo;

storms, never forming.

Cohesion of cells.

Unifying principle.

Ashes to ashes?

A barren wasteland,

wind screams over dark gravel,

tears dry on my cheeks.

I cry so hard I choke.

Is this to puke up

those parts which do not feel?