Little jealous in the shallows, another found the coolest shell.
Bay with mountain blasting beyond the water. Raised hell to
praise his shiny bike, or highest kite in the still blue of afternoon.

Retrospect in smoking vest taps a cuban on the carpet.
Boy with bowie knife guts a happy rabbit, new ritual suicide
pre-packaged instant magic, the fool fell off his harley laughing.
Demystified the inner workings of toe bones in the 40 horse power
chain wheel. Black occasionally split with the red star of pain hovering
in the north like a hive of eagles. Saw her in the floorboards first and
to avoid the war, that hardest walk, became swan upon the Ganges.

On the wind that filthy euphony you used to sing while killing spiders
in the kitchen; belly laugh to eclipse the heart, a surging in the shadows.

—Who judged them legend?

—The powder-slave who built the fortress.

They mutilate themselves with shameful tortures.
At the gates naked angels laugh as stars deflate,
hearts thumping for our daughters.

The wasp deceased in a rusty sink her torn open heart
her bleeding wings beside her in a vinyl bag. She could
only hold the flower for an hour before it drooped like a
bored worm in her fingers. You could have taken me apart
with the ease of a machine, just then an insect pinned in
fixative. The silence now without a shadow. At once all too
lofty and full of sorry ideals she continues limping along the
outskirts. You see her there crouched like a cringing and
distorted tree, contrary to the colonel in that other world
of make believe. And you can never steal back this moment.
And then another sound, a rusting swingset in a badly
landscaped backyard.

—
from A Dark Samadhi