Suburban Pastures

Blue sky hangs high,
this grass so green;
still this field
is no place for horses.
A pasture wrapped tight
with picket fence borders,
the interstate
through its heart
like headwaters.
On four legs they stand
with their teeth
in their mouths,
but they still look
as noble as ever.
Yet you'll never believe
what you see
in this place;
for this field
is no place for horses.

In the Eyes of Cosmic Storms

Crawled from endless hallways

through oxytocin haze

of unlived days

experienced thirdhand.

I have ridden waves on violent seas

in the eyes of cosmic storms

and will do so

for time eternal.

Beyond our finite bodies

we expand into forever

as entangled threads of being

stitched into the face of God. 

The Hands of Ghosts

The cold smoke coils
Hanging in the reaches of my breath
Define the moments
Hanging in the reaches of our being.
I'm remembering
That your body is a wasteland,
And lying still,
As my veins bleed into themselves
Relentlessly.
I tire by wandering
The endless halls
Of alternate possibility
Until I give up
On my fantasies.
It all just feels
Like swimming through the hands of ghosts.