The Hoosac bares its teeth, a hollow maw, blackened breath and tunnel wind, “1877” grins in frost. An ancient epitaph etched neatly above, one hundred ninety-five souls entombed within, sorrow spools through stone and gloom. “1877” marks the dead. The tracks thread through leaves and goldenrod, steel slicing through a silent wilderness, a warmth still lingers on the rails, like slow breaths weaving beneath iron ribs. I step along the sleepers, savoring the hush that pools aft

I looked back At an old letter I had written to myself In it I talked Of the same dreams I have now Why did they stay the same? Was it the images of sunlit kitchens Of cozy homes Quiet moments The smell old candles And even older books Was it the comfort The calm And the quiet I yearn for now? Or the promise of potential love Of care To notice the bad moments The bad days The love to listen To hear me when no one else does To spend the moments with To do absolutely nothing

Have you been to the Brewster Arboretum? You can't find dragon scales or seashells there, but they have weeds. Not from the sea, though. Theirs are home grown, not washed up pom-poms Covered in pus and puke. You know, the trees told me peace leaves. if you speak their tongues, they'll tell you too. I try my best to carry it, to help it get to where it needs to go, like I did your grandfather's ashes at Bass Hole. The sea told me to tell you that, but that was ages

Life is only struggle. Struggle is always pain. Pain is unbearable. Existence is futile. Me and you are meaningless bundles of sinew and bone. There’s no reason to keep going. You are worthless. You are vile. I must hate the world, for hate is all that’s true. And in turn, i must hate you too. Justice is when i cry and bleed and wail. Freedom is when i twist and rend and flail. There is nothing. All is gone. The stars are just light. Evil is the mind. To sleep is to be awake.

I dream of blood in the dirt I dream of flowers picked for the dead I dream of trucks and guns and untouched loaves of bread I dream of shots to the neck Shots to the head and shots to the chest I dream of emaciated children And hate-filled “lovers” in their Sunday best I dream of the New York Times logo I dream of the newscaster’s voice I dream of the classroom’s harsh letters I dream of the way I see the reds rejoice I dream of missing my medicine And I dream of my own love

There is a moment before day when the world f o r g e t s her name— then she arrives, not as thunder, but as radiant energy, a whisper of warmth spilling through, essential for vision - an energy transfer, a quiet pulse saying: become. The air feels lucid, my thoughts i l l u m i n a t e their own corners, and I see not what is, but what she might be

(Rushing through the long hall down the long stairs) -Ani DiFrano, Self Evident -this long road leading to a windowless, empty room, birds are singing before 'started chasing me- I stay-in-prayer, thump'n forest barefoot top roots form [in] to bismuth shape, Melding with my exhale, stifling self [to] my gods -[while] I'm scared for my life whip't seldom solace wench't (Prayer Wrapping the air) the wind distorting my hair, It fills me [in

Dreaming is a velvet hallway, lined with rooms of liquid mirrors and doors made of breath. At the end, a mind-lantern you are drawn to, it pulls your body with its soft tide of dew. Above you, A glass ceiling of stars-- you push, it bends at your will. But I've let you fall too deeply, the mirrors begin to hum, soft as insects, inside your skull. I hum with them, weighing your hands, cementing you with soul-fog. the doors are now shut, the lantern rots

Amid ancient forget-me-nots' Bees buzzing under brilliant dusk Carefully conducting courteous ceremony Decrypt an otherwise desolate world Eager to envelope that honeycomb Frisky, fierce, fighting fable Garlands of themselves Hop the fence Ingenious plans Just enough to take us away Kindling like Lingering ashes, flying into those flowers Meandering down slowly, feeding the pollen No, I don't think there's a point in turning back Or maybe t

Telephone calls and Sunday fog. “How far?” And it’s not that long. Movies, drinks, romanticize the very first one that we both saw. Then we delve into obsession. Hide your intentions with soft kisses. A skewed reflection and floating oasis. Perfect the art so nothings missing. Hands up cause you failed to mention the arrival of my own assassination. A planned funeral with concessions. Watch love bleed to desolation. And amidst this sacrificial sentence: Addiction, it conned t