Too slow to save the
dead, our leaders
are inept and cruel.
While they memorized the digits
of factoid findings
we can't forget the
violent still lifes of devestation.
Still, they will move like
heroes in the camera's lens,
dashing to save the poor blue dead.
While 10 million more flail their
aging arms against the lash of gravel
the swell of glass.
The shadow stands silent
in the sprawling distance.
He is the prophet of idle hands,
the conductor of self destruction.
He is the shadow of Control.
The unyielding silhouette
of greed soaked Executives.
The shadow on the bring needs no
cloth of mystery.
He is my own capacity for horror,
my drowning days of sloth,
and my forgetful unknowing inability
to learn.

at the prophet.


The Vernacular of Vestibules

is a mixture of silence
and neutered jazz.

Outside exposed to the much talked about weather
I sell empty space
“$5 please”
I inhale fumes and fresh air
“Hello sir”
Some people don’t say a word.
Others exhale Seneca Nation cigarette smoke,
chew big bites of wet meat,
see through me
beyond me
accuse me
suspect me.
“Let me get the door for your ma’am”
My degradation illuminates their elevated status
more perfect than bleach
whiter than teeth.
“Thank you so much”
I stare at clouds
close my eyes
control my breath
expanding into
empty space.


I see a photograph of
a bright dancer
in mid step.
Nice to note the
rare beauty of human form.
Then I catch the glare
off the glasses of a girl
looking on and notice
the audience and their
average faces.
The photograph
becomes sadness.