Pablo Cruise

Down the Northwest Angle cross the brow of the Boundary’s claim
The northern wanders with no less purpose, than what it brings
Toward the River Valley from off The Mighty Range
In days gone short of purpose, it’s time for premonitions and lore
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You could have been whatever I yearned
But the words were never cared
I fell short in so many ways
Countless crosses I must bear
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Willow

Gentle quiver on that luminous verge
The echo of your beauty twice seen
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The Wedge

Tapered edges opposed in form
A mordant face to drive it home
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Communing in the corners
Under chairs and desks where the neglect remains
Vagabonding cross windows with the light to guide your way
It’s the stillness that’s your solace
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Callused spirit in declining coil
Bended back as if he knows
Skin creased from fended toil
A cane to stress the pose
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Do you remember the calls home from behind the screen?
When our days were full of anything
Skinny, brown, half clothed without their consent
Feet as black as slate
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Carousel

Pondering horses on circular courses
A purpose with nowhere to go
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Fractured lines half realized
From where to lips to pen
Dead poets mind to spill a page
Flesh the colors from my skin
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White comes the horse
In my darkest need
Inside myself you beckon
Please, come take the lead
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Within, within my pended self
To hold unto this absolute grey
The arc of life in concerned descent
Deep breaths unresolved in present decay
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Watch me rise above the page
And claim myself amongst the mass
Finesse the form to shape the copy
A capacity not held by most
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I stroll the street my thoughts ride the air with every breath
Wind swirls to scrape my cheek reminding me to be vigilant of its looming bite
A young woman clutches hand to chest keeping the chill from becoming too familiar
Trees sway littering the air with their infinite supply of photosynthetic messages as
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Its 3: 00 AM in Minneapolis
The world is asleep outside my door
Across the street a light is beaming
It filters down from a 2nd floor
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In the corner of the yard where the leaning red stained fence,
Converged with the chain link line
Where a lone fig and a singular prickly pear struggled,
To convince that caliche ground
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Vignettes of scenes from my own way
Flicker past in nonsensical parade
From yesterday to birthday cakes and Christmas Trees
The reality keeps filling
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There is a ghost inside of me
Who wills me to a crawl
Chasten my proclivities
To stumble and then to fall
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