A late night writing dump of Poetry. Still prepping for the rapidly approaching reading, and working on various projects. Life is taller than the Berlin wall, and twice as thick. I need a pick-ax that prevents sleep. 6/10/2012


This Website has now been armed. 5/15/2012



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Facebook: Farmer John Zanath


I walk the sidewalks a lot,
In March, when the trees start
To become drowned skeletons
In wet and cold and gray.

The low-air stalks by,
slipping through my hair and
hissing about old memories
From past winters.

I recall your rainbow eyes,
And tiger smile. Ivory fangs,
That could form words
And sink deep under my chest.

I just want you to know,
That the streets still
Chant the dirge of grinding
Tires and barking dogs.

And that the sky, hasn't
Been as pretty as when
You were under it, staring
Up at God's indifferent face.

I know this town devoured,
Any chances we stole,
And made you run from
Phantoms and back to his
Familiar safety.

But these avenues made us meet,
As I murder-gripped the curb
And you softly rubbed my shoulder,
Saying death was too far to care.

I stop every few blocks to
Take a solid picture, of this
City, like a land-locked Atlantis,
That built something beautiful
And tore it back down.