I am not content

to fade into yesterday’s

almanac, landing on a

shelf of dusty dreams,

fading to sepia tones.

 

I am not content

with a ribbon of gray

threading through the

needle of my existence,

stitching my life

into a burial shroud.

 

I am not content

to leave words unturned,

eroding into fragments

of ash gray limestone.

White chalk smeared,

scattered on a blackboard.

 

I am not content

with splinters of dripping

flaxen honey, wrestled from

the comb, stuck in webs

to my right hand.

 

I am not content

to leave syllables

unheeded,

whispers from sage

in twilight sleep:

 

“I carve on cavern walls

hieroglyphs of

moonblood, birth.

I paint meringue clouds

rocket fire,

blue mayhem,

fossil butte…

 

speak my signature,

voice aquiver.”