If we could bottle Dragon’s Breath
for wholesale, we could make a fortune.

And it wouldn’t matter what it does. Engine
Degreaser, furniture polish,
rat poison or napalm. It
would sell.

It would cure diseases, according
to the label. Swine flu, Bird
flu, Shingles, The Shakes, and
everything else we’ve got to
fear from the great wide world.

It would nourish and sate even
the mightiest of hungers or
the fastest of metabolisms. It would
keep us clean and anything but
Visceral. And By God, I’m sure

it’d do whatever is the opposite
of killing us all.

Now, the only trick
is bottling something
that doesn’t quite exist.

Disguise your face or reach a similar end
Wandering brings no certainty
But the certainty of separation
The North Star still shines over the oceans
But the damage has arrived
The sea and sky become one
And nature wears out
Even the wittiest poet
No extravagant praise
Nor the felt tips of a thousand pens
Can restore her against herself
She talks while there is sleep
And bids permission to do so
Foolish are attempts, and so I am guilty
Of exchanging worthless for invaluable
It is the futility in trying to control
The pitch of thunder

A lecherous, slippery ambition
And too often with disparaging anger
No pacification will be brought about
But by chance in absolute destruction
Such inclinations will be dismissed

So scheme schemes to destroy
In Machiavellian fashion
Abandon your kitchens and bedrooms
Call to action the militaries
Toxic watered down dreams
To drink to the bottom
Of a big-belled glutton that we are
Rooted with precise balance
The figure head, a clock
To undo in the darkness
The argument of disorder
Feeding on hesitation
To live, to not be devoured by incapacity
Is to act as if nothing is known
But what use is a life
That has not sought to control the squall
Though it remains false thunder

Drinking drop by drop

Future beds take a big gulp…

Seattle, PA.

i don’t want to read
i don’t want to fight
i don’t want to breed
i don’t want to be right

i don’t want to hurt
i don’t want to jerk
i don’t want to girt
i don’t want to work

and i’m on my way

at the thought
of your touch,
slowly moving
from navel to nipple,
from knee to neck,
from the boundaries of me
into the borders of you.