from bed, before the sun rises


catatonic children donned rhinestone suits for the procession

stamped behind one another

walking in tireless fashion

scorn sewn to their experience-less expressions

riveted and compelled



filing past suits and pinned flowers, stretched faces finding and fulfilling their future

suddenly dead drum beats find their final echo

halting the synchronized steps to stranded conclusions, they turn to the marionettes and bow

moments later

scattering flashes

reflections a blur

costume changes


labeled by age no more

it’s their turn to lead refusing to reuse tread upon tired traditions


insisting you acknowledge purple satin sunsets wearing what you came in

splayed haphazard

in the birthing rays of dying days

step-by-step, shuffle, and step, run, now stop, step-by-step

from a couch, little ones to tend to

catch the pieces of my distorted fairy tales that don’t suit you, or throw them away


now you don’t care?

once they fed your wonder

get along, get along, get out

wander back down the palm waving path of those who believe in you

destroy every scream left as we continue fighting the lying of the light as cradles rock and the torture of darker hues brings about change we were destined to encounter with bloated bellies and fake coin counters pried from the earth our worth they grade

wide birth expanding our pay as we’ll wade in swirling water drains when the final flood finds you

you can only run so far, so long, and i bid you farewell as you grasp to the last breath of your past that failed

blaming the ones you resurrected in search of a tail that you would lead

eating each other


folding to nothing except the examination of every atom never belonging to you

you were special right?


i forget

who are you?

from bed, wrapped in a towel waiting

cancer crushed the cornerstore front where i was soft selling my wares to those who would stop long enough to understand the value of worlds that would emerge from words they heard dripping with hyped to high-heaven hyperbolic terms, a pitch to catch every dime store dip-shit who couldn’t discern between integrity and the incessant need to flatter ourselves in the dark imagining that she would actually come home with us

or him home with me

you home with he

we don’t come home

i wasn’t so disillusioned

understanding fever pitch i walked away before the switch would kill the last necessary need to continue to feed the balancing half of this distraction

it was destruction

disappointed that you kept defending their right to feed at the same trough as the ones who gave you this cloth, stained with the way you trained them to listen when nobody else would come

a disease

innocuously took the heat for you

the lie for him

the life from them

why did you tell me you were born in July

I was at that store

when your mom, on your birthday, left you in the falling snow