something sinister sits
en Brutalism

Soviet, Socialist, shit…

At the stream, where cattails grow,
where frogs croak and turtles float,
hundreds of soldiers trod and tread
with full packs and lowered heads…

If boys could do the “pretty” thing
they’d be adorned with the finest rings
instead of one tying them to another…

In times when I couldn’t quiet my mind
I lost myself in Picasso’s blues.
The only thing that I could find…

Black and white
reflects neon lights,
and coffee stains the air…

Wendy Darling, the sweetest darling, was Peter Pan’s best friend.
They’d fly so high, through the night sky, to adventures that saw no end.
From their Captain Hooks and crocodiles, they’d fly so far away
in hopes of finding joy and freedom, in a place they weren’t afraid…

I climbed atop the spines of giants sleeping in the Rockies,
my bare feet tickling them awake from thousand year slumbers.
The grass, long hairs against their backs, felt welcome between my toes…

She used to say,
“I’ll fly away.” This day
she hoped came quick.
“Over the rainbow,
and beyond, I’ll go,
to follow the yellow brick…

If you didn’t want to love me
if you didn’t want to care…

For many years he played the clown.
Moments of up and down. Down
lower where he heard no sounds…

The park was clear - the night was not - save children sledding
and sons and daughters in snowball fights, while horses pulling
carriages clopped-clopped-clopped on steel clad hooves…

I’ll have another and another and another and another and another…

He picked up roses on road sides
for lost souls he picked up on his side
of the bar, on late nights, in self-induced blackouts.
Because no one informed him that roses
shrivel and wither like those endeared…

Remember when. We’d do this together?
I’d grab one end, and you’d grab the other…

At the canyon where I thought it’d end
only to find I had strength again.
Across mountains and plains I traveled true…

In pouring rain, a fountain sprang
to life from an empty basin.
Its arches mixed with falling drops
and rested over dehydrated rocks…

What’s it like for trees to breathe?
Is it like daisies in an open field?
Do they fight the others for space, for sky…

Kiss his lips which sting with gin. His lips
which hit, inflict this infectious affection itch.
His lips which sing this heinous sin, this
designation…