The Four C's

as honest as I can be.

Time, amplest of all ideas.

 

My hands push shredded hardwood,

damp and sun-darkened,

through Marakata-green blades

of Gladiolus that breach this time

of year like AED’s sheathed in sand.

 

Months ago, I stared through the wire

nets of a loving heart. There, stocking

coal eyes that chase ghosts through glass-less

windows desperately hunted for clear sky.

The soldiers behind them, of the visionary,

marched the deceptive ‘I’ into eyeless hands.

 

I held my words in hand like spit

Waits for honest spit.

I felt like Creeping Lilyturf

As I returned to the East Coast

with the Sangre de Christos in the rear-view.

A bottle of tampered Ireland rested

Between my legs like a mut claws

at gravity for a sniff of wind.

 

The sweat weeps down the semi-sealed

cuts of my arms like a gladiator’s shroud.

I give up swatting spiders that crawl

my limbs- for shelter or revenge (I don’t know).

I wonder if it isn't better to lie down now"

the fruit of my labor sequestered by dreams.