Container Board

The spaces in between are filled

With my own words–

A Sysphian stutter.
Where my hands meet the boulder,

The ink bleeds through.

And I slowly coat the indentations.


MOS: Erriapus

When we know little more than a name
wasting away in red
a free moment that glasses over the moon in repose.

I am silent in the bog.
Watching. There is a hope
of limousines and remorse.

Broken rings break constantly.

We come home from the past
seeking abuse of the horn
I am whipped again.

The leather is the bringer.

Frayed among the lashes.

I await,
having nothing to say.

MOS: Albiorix

This is missing.
It’s all bullshit and shells.
Empty chairs or pages or
the taste of warm Dr Pepper has outgrown us.

Glass alters the shadow,
it now shimmers on the table top,
the pre-distressed concrete floor,
with all the hints of a broken life.

But they said you were missing.
Hidden under a presidential beard:
guns and top hats,
swimming pools and cocktail dresses.

The simple hedge of mourning.
a glimpse of the blasé.