The rhythm on pavement blocks
Of a timely square hour knock-knock-knock
It’s hard to hear mice that scurry.
Knock-knock
Nobody is attentive towards the struggling weeds with pride,
Or the mythical squeals disembodied by the alleyways.
Knock
However I go,
The concrete should know
A child is sulking.
And a telescopic dot of beasts on a hill
Through a noiseless lens,
Silently stalking.
Waiting,
Calmly talking.

Anticipatory canines lavish blood,
Wetting appetites via cylinder.
A child thinks,
About,
The trolls that crave his flesh and usurp his tears.
A child cannot deny,
canines,
of wolves that were born from sheep with shears.
A meadow may learn,
to lay
its path and play with pavement.
A child cries,
plunge knives into a pumpkin’s sky,
And the innards who mourn embrace.

Fibrous orange
In welded buckles of shoes,
Or their consumed sharpie-fume
Or their concrete kissing rhythm


A grandfather clock knocks with time run amok


Seasons of meander serpentine are drawn by the oroboros brass
The Colubrine Moses of Shrubbery,
With a slight parting of grass.

Hawks glazed the sky’s surface
The lord’s sight
deflected by the silverbacks
Shriveled limbs seep out of his pockets
And melt into jet fuel to power our rockets.
Sympathetic magic
Seasons our space-food
Of the sheep and wolf vile corn-flesh soup,
Where men would melt in space from the spicy sauce packets
In this centripetal works,
And A jar of honey god forgot,
Searing retinal holes to pervade its recalling.
The light that was distant now peers into a blue spec of persistence,
An entropic mess lacking regard for its unabashed forgiveness.
Mother’s extraterrestrial milk,
nourishes.
Eventually,
A child is a boy
And a boy is bestowed indefinite fever,
he’s
Swallowing hallucinations, Digesting mistrust,
Finding a place to displace his disgust,
All in a windowed perspective,
Of down-under-world
A realm full of pigs,
consumptive wolves
And pitiable sheep,
Empty skulls
And Cargo ships,
with rotted hulls
Where a boy’s grafted skin
was once shipped from health to infection.



The view is now desolate,
With but a blacksmith’s raging hands,
a spectacle of his work’s plethora,
Symbiotic with the sands.
A grain is light and gentle,
As wind picks up the pace
As divisions in the soil
Conjure genocide’s commonplace
But the loss of a birthright, To edge the lawn,
Brings a blood hued moon and uses ducks on dawn,
By the combustion of foddering invisible hands that,
Mayn’t be solitary, and
According to movement,
Are forced to crave the following:
No more light in the eyes of wolves,
Snuff the greenish glow.
No more flocks of shearless sheep that graze the commons peacefully,
No more droves of fattened pigs,
Just items of privilege sheathing the beaches.
With nobody left,
Who was that unpaid labor for?,
Doors of dead and commercialization.
…
No more heaps of ocean waste,
But the wasted recollection of life’s collective vision,
And a man who replaced ivory keys
Unaware of the song he was playing.
Now we see,
As far as the eye could.
Now we see,
As far as the mind should.
Now we see,
As far as a boy would
If his whimpers are met with delicacy,
And his body and soul are not blighted
By fingers of transparency and lustful efficacy.

We see what life held in store,
As lonely bones find friends to form esoteric altars,
Propounding the stomach’s undying remains,
To the gods of
Corporate economies,
Who crave monotheistic praise,
Whilst timidly shivering behind their graves.
And,
All that may be Preserved is
the taxidermied Flesh by
Oil that begins to permeate the
Lifeless soil, warped and
Tainted by tales of asphyxiation that seep into aquifers.

Now we see
Through the nature of consuming
What you thought would eat each other,
Coincidentally adjoined reapers,
Instead hide from who
But little a place can disguise a species,
Little can currents purify poison,
Little can forests cherish a blade,
Little can casinos neglect a spade.
Little can life be found again,
Little can home for seeds extend,

We Pay Now,
Yet we live.
And if we decide not to give,
We will give up or give in.
The ticking time bomb has stopped:
Stick Wax in your ears!
Grab another shear,
And I assure
Momentary detonation.



Think like a wolf,
And its coordinate hunter
Think like a mountain,
In omnipotent slumber
Despite its weight, unencumbered,
Think like the tides and gravitational forces,
Imagine the moon with its saddened condolences.
A boy whispers secrets of clairvoyance to a chirping bird while painting its plumage.
Now they intend to feed on feeders,
To please a windowed watcher
And a bird hopes that
their polychromatic visage
Will pinch the eyes that find them
And guide their gaze to mounds of corpses,
buried by the frightened.
Because,
A boy has neglected cries;
His tears cannot be simple.
Sheep must shear the tears into coherency,
They cannot be solitary while plowing soil,
Yielding arguments of disfutility.

A boy?

His is Pinocchio,
He is me,
He is you in a forest of birch,
He is Aesop about his wolves and sheep,
A robin upon its perch.
He is that creaks
And spits out dust.
He is but love, when it must.
He is prayer his eyes will be brought to clasp
With the tip of a familiar tongue,
The tongue that spoke his language
When humanity was green on the thumb

Pinocchio’s nose grows,
And grows heavily it does.
And the weight that whines of earth's embrace
Now must face the hate a boy has sanctioned
For his billions of memorized slightful faces,
In the Earth’s duned metamorphosis.
When the time is right,
No longer will us,
Assumptive apes of chaos,
Have time.

A man?
A child?
A boy,
And may he find maturity.
As we are,
He whispers smitten,
Bent on unbiased ears of birth,
He regrets his invention-
Or so he mentions-
From the vortices punctuating earth.
I hear he redacts the grounds of his hopeful intention,
While justified not of noses or their frayed fibers or
By the fibers severed
Nor of lonely lies and their liars
But more of eating fruit not fed,
That in his joy resided.

Farewell,
And may you never imagine
The desolate lands and your
Children
Whose eyes are no longer moist.
To scream curdled once more is
To split my voice on stone
Stone warmer than bodies of those
Who have lost pickaxe vs. Prose.

I will now breach my rhythm
And the way I speak to you to snap your mind into a revitalized,
Aware,
and hopefully respondent state of being:
Please, don’t think you own a boy.
if you have loved ones at home,
Imagine what you’d do
To help them make it through
Neglect-induced trauma.
Treat a boy as you would them.
For if we cease to act,

Quite frankly,

We will all die.
Thank you