Feste's Lute

Oxidate

Quixotic,
the oldest fables
rise as dross.
The faith is frayed,
luke-warm, and
destined for the flame.
Pathetic kettles evenly
pour blame.
A righteous rage
half-hearted and untoward.
Forsaken, sickened, ancient.
The Rust will reign.

a snippet

Mr. Polo cried “Marco”
and slapped his own back,
“the tricks of your trade routes
are under attack.”

The Alchemists Aim for Altitude

The laughter starts
just as they make
the hard ascent,
they wryly trample
past the groves,
their mirth wells up at
stunted pines on rocks,
they gasp and cough
as air grows cold.

The summit shines
for lasting want
of devastation.
A note is taken,
soon to be addressed.
A pike is standing
up with headway,
spiked to smite
all past regrets.

Their aspirations rage and lurk
beneath the tree line,
they carve out root bark
for the heights.
The stench of solvent
canters all around them,
their poisoned sweat
molests the clime.

Too Much for Today

It’s all too sad. So little time to say hi.

To the editors, thank you. To the new and shiny ones, I look forward to seeing you on my dash.

To the absent souls, stop it.

Formative

I felt it
move beneath,
your skin
a sort of sheath —
retaining hate.
Porcelain
and cubes
and shivers sink as
thoughts release.
As you wait to wake,
your givens break,
soaking the sheets.
Hardness under
fingers pressed,
malignant whims,
the absence of Dream.

Paging Waste

Knowledge breaks
on rakish faces.
Tines abate on plates
and fruited plains.

Celestial stains
as wounded sparrows leap.
The legend sinks
and North is
out of place.

Abate, abate.
The hook is relegated,
bookshelves dusted bloody
as we wait.