Coyote Prose

  Set alone in dusty antinomy, frameless thoughts on hollow walls Echoing heartache quenched on a canvas the world sighs and tiringly recalls. The air is heavy and damp with melancholy, an aching parade of practiced retreat. The smoke hides the ceiling, feet nailed to the floor, the smell of tobacco and petrichor grief.   Eyes flutter down at an opera in motion while the voltage is humming with practiced devotion Their verdant cascades tell of wary enrapture, methodical soothsaying, each chord a divulgence. Each revelation of bloody construction, the price is too dear and the storefront is shuttered. Quickening breath tearing rifts in the gutters, the cascading deluge of rhythmless clutter, his hand grips his chest, the impasse is sputtered, to die on a leash or escape unencumbered? Fine strands of silver more precious than profit run racetracks for tears as they fall from his face The tune reassembles to something domestic, placid antinomy and conscripted ...

 From whence came grace but upon the toil of His majestic hand. The seat of power and sovereign clarity, salient rivers who brook no doubt. No faithless men to bear the standard, pray that we may do without,   The ravens feasting on those whose wages built houses on the sand

On the eve of silver doubt, A bride stirs in her sleep. Restless visions bar the gate and so she weeps Solace stolen, for death’s last rout. Fortress walls though tall and stout, The winding smoke, they cannot keep Amythyst roiling, sweltering heat, Her nightmares drown her somber shout   Grinding wheels, a sea of sparks The watchmen do not blow their horns On lilac cumulus she embarks “Have nothing to do with him!” she forewarns. But like the cove with hidden shoal, The eve of silver doubt endures, the Savior's amaranthine veil is torn.