Sound of the Black Hound

the black dog

the black dog hunts

the black dog hunts at night

boom/boom/boom/boom

heavy bass

heavy bass

bat screech minor

silent wind sashays

see see the black dog run

pentatonic scale

dribbles on asphalt

one finger at a time

apply heavy pastels

only black keys

make division

bodies tarnish inurn

alone in a lounge

on certain nights

undying plastic

duplicate keys

depression glass

holds a long note

discordant smudge

the black dog

the black dog howls

the black dog howls at night

boom/boom/boom/boom

heavy bass heavy bass

never a harp

denouement seizure

in idiot tongue.

Oasis

Like a violent specter

released from its grave,

a sandstorm erupts—

suffocating half our fighters

(who understood the risk)

but laying waste

to the entire robotic horde.

We cruise the dunes

in fumeless vehicles

reveling in victory

well into darkness.

The curfew is lifted,

my possessions returned to me.

All that I require has been kept

in a child’s playbox—

buried by a plastic shovel

beneath scoops of falling sand.

The King’s Horsemen

Forget what you think you saw.

The sunflower is already dead—

trampled by livestock no longer content

to be domesticate,

imprisoned by barbs and harsh shocks.

There are no handholds for what has passed.

Determined travelers will find where

the road ends,

a pile of gravel surrounded by cornstalks

and weeds. Disillusioned,

they abandon their vehicle in haste.

Capturing the moment

is myth meant to console erosion of the familiar.

Experience defies being taken.

Alone, we are left to consider

the inner landscape of a field car,

needing to know its dreams,

the drawing out of its fears.

It will tell you it cannot be objectified

in permanent brokenness,

stand for more than its own passing identity,

and will never be a source

for conjuring art from the artless.