when foxes come

swallowing moonlight
with half naked humility,
aftertaste of unpleasant cloud
the day would sacrifice me,
me a host to the yellow sun
wrapped in a fleece
of further understanding,
a measure to the international indifference
patron to the act of ignorance,
this is a race, our race
spend life in an aggrieved chokehold
as time seeps the stupid sore
picked at by eager interference,
of state
in desperate need of rescue



only asses and chickens
claw at the dirt
spreading a mess
soiled by their own entrapment
it would be unforgiving
when the foxes come

sunday whirl

geometrics and some physical optics

he woke
he pissed
he smoked,
sat at the desk as others
before him,
heavy oak resonance,
with politicknife would cut policy
it had become about color,
the blue the yellow
strove to adjust to each other,
the red the green
so incompatible,
clarity was needed in misdirection
politicknife more palette than blade
scraped bluntly over canvas
to portray the country
texture and relief,
some of it muddied
stained like shit on a public toilet,
he spoke on TV
bright suited as a clown
body language and gestures
seen and felt as colors of betrayal
it was beyond functionalism
and wider knowledge
colors bled
every perception was not upheld,
people took to tree lined avenues
beneath autumn auburn,
held poster paint placards
colors adjusted
all attitudes changed,
again at his desk
looking at errors of doctrine,
the religious confined to sunday
men of friday peace,
zealots who ranted for any god
they where unifying
he felt afraid,
colors that should never combine
on palette or canvas,
became alive,
betrayed inside government halls,
closed eyes so that the brightness
would not be visible,
humanities noose
had underwritten his future,
rainbows can be clutched
in eager hands and each strand
peeled apart
like shotgun pellets,
reflected refracted
no more distinction
it was over,
slashing the canvas
pissed over it
pouring gasoline
it burned,
defeat knew a cell door
and he was content,
within gray and bleak darkness
color could not and would not intrude
now he felt alive

poetry , poem

Turn The Soil

freedom is a ferment

of rhetoric rooted in

clotted earth,

turned by hand

and senate approval,

words grow

linguistic tangles of

law and statement,

a nation addressed,

trembling shoots

recover nutrition lost

leaves can only mottle

stagnant moments

of federal reserve

cacophony of calls

for it to be poured

to moisten

soak the soil

many hands upon the


few have strength,

resonant hearts

beat out

like drums across the


voters in a patient wanting

after TV debate,

they had knowledge

a profound affect

on the effect of the nation,

red earth

blue sky

white stars,

imagine what you see

virtuous cloth

cannot hide

hunger and strife,

passed boarded fronts

and foreclosure sign,

to take a line

and show with mark

how life should be,

then wait

pollsters want your souls

but the nation needs your


give it life and think,

do not leave it to the

history of memory,

from fertile earth

comes life.