ashes to ashes, dust to dust

i bought two scarves, secured them both around my neck. it was cold. she wore a sweater and a veil of pragmatism over her faithful face.

we lived in separate rooms, with one common wall between us. i press my ear to it and could hear her pray in the wee hours of the morn.

she collected the ashes of her deceased relatives. they were in jars, labeled, above the fireplace. each was juxtaposed with a mahogany-framed photo of the deceased.

i remember, in those days, i had no deceased relatives that would merit jarred ashes. i began to collect dust and put it in jars. i labeled them with the date. it embellished my mantel thoroughly.

sweating skeptics wearing monocles in the library loft

SKEPTICS!
yearning; synchronized
for indisputable clarity
searching; thumbing
through archaic articles:
Elizabeth Bathory, Vlad III the Impaler
Robespierre, Wolfowitz
the ones who've "got it together"
OH, but the (answer) isn't there,
close your eyes,
open the other,
let yourself breathe free
and may you visualize thee beacon
( ):::::

and skeptics we shall be

haiku 2

confused little boys
whistle Hail to the Chief, low
to themselves. power

fate?

O Moirae!
Did you submerge my thread in tar
and hand it gently to the executioner's wife?
Does destiny dine in a truckstop Midwest,
drenched in tobacco airs, this blackened life?
The tired days and working ways interest me no more,
yet the heavy lids and hammer held be oft remembered lore.

And, Sweet Hammer,
Do I wield you as Peter, or as Maxwell,
for peace, or to implement dire fear?
And, Hammer, is life a giant mechanism,
within which I be a mere gear?
If so the stage and fictitious sage be vagrants of my mind,
and for to prosper and for wellness I do devote my time...

cryptos

i

ineptitude's favorite song is solace,
a constant ringing in my ear
the faceless horsemen pull the reins,
i think they heard the song too

ii

you are a river, soft and calm
i, myself, felt a pig despite my alms
given for grace to a tireless waif

oh, sweet river! what id give
to wash my face again in your waters
its the fake sense of understanding
and the fake caresses that you foster

iii

but the waif is gnawing at my toes
and she the river, she no longer flows
and solace, the trumpet, it no longer blows
and the path ahead, it no longer glows
and the horsemen, lost, they no longer know
just which way their horse will go
in search of solace,
understanding,
a sweet caress,
a mythological place of cryptics

a haiku

An unfettered
flowing stream of soft content,
Everything change

smiths

i was a wrought iron boy sculpted pissing in the corner of the yard;
you were a vagrant's destination, unfilling yet gorgeous from afar
beams of light create heat upon my flesh, the raindrops rust my exposed genitals
you're smiling now, i sense that, its rude but you convey it so smart and cordial

like tobogganeers on ice pulling reins too hard to control,
we slid fast together toward the valley steady and unsure
you're smiling now, i sense that, its too hard to control
naked and supine on frozen tundra laughing 'what was any of this for?'

meaningless, cold, exposed, and broken
wrought iron boy plead be awoken