end of oil

motions

a desert storm

Mare Marginis

Was that not it? In our formative years,
Hardly begun when the old men settled
Into wistful jingo (having never had it so good),
Time wove its spell on them, drew its veil,
Washed us all in their cold water tomorrows.

thrown

histories of the living
on a pyre where
everything burns

Last Rays of Christmas

The last rays of Christmas
are scattered on the wall,
the final fading glitter
of a festive glitter ball.

change

City of Tiny Lights

November night rolls up the moon;

street-lit clouds leach away its light;

something resembling starlight shakes a fist;

incandescence shines like neon saints 

converging in a sky of little rain.

Undying Art

Poetry was never dying:
always alive, it lay sleeping
in doorways, stepped over
by people looking somewhere else.

Breaking the Surface

injury arrives on the outside

a scratch a weal a wen
brazen disfigurement