the view from beneath my feet

---

when planes fall (or fly

into not air) they drop

notes, dipped in ash like names

that we promised to remember

the pact of being born (and full

of life) but, somehow,

we have forgotten

we do not have that in us
to remember

--- 

Fool's Gold

----

after a sudden and desperate rain
the sun drips, tempts, like honey
slow, and impossibly sweet
drying drops on leaves like mascara
until it should rain again

----

A Blank And Noisy Fog

---

why are you still

at war with yourself?

you pick up your pointed edge

and walk into a white and empty field

to muster the words to describe

your suffering again

the battle that never ends

between you, yourself and your pen

it was just a false alarm

this time, he said

as if a war with yourself

was just another

game of kids playing targets

with their growing spines

and i, wait, knowing

there is no way to avoid

the coming bloodshed

of black and angry splotches

of ink that bleeds

through canvas

the blank page 

demands to be filled

one way, or

another

with me, or

my brother

---