Spirit Of The River (Lutra canadensis)

Growing Old

Kyle Shanebeck — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 04:12:10 +0000

I killed a child today.

He smiled at me in the street,

so I smiled back with a grin

that split the corners of my

mouth, I was, unhinged.

With the white of malice

pouring into my eyes, from

my tongue there grew a

sharpened spine;

incisors gleam, lips

unfold, saliva swell, and

I swallowed him.

Engorged then, I pondered

what authored this

pedophilic appetite. For,

while he festered here

inside and the acidity

of my thoughts assailed

mortality, I grew young.

Perhaps my conscience is

the thing that feeds.

I killed a child today,

and if anything I felt

sagacious, as I firmly

cracked an aching jaw

back into place.

Lay Me Down

Kyle Shanebeck — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 19:12:11 +0000

The waters were deep,
the pebbles cold
beneath her feet,
a chill that crept
into her bones,
her hands were filled with river stones.
.
The lights were chaste,
the sun warm
upon her frozen face,
a warmth that told
she was alone,
her feet were bare upon the stones.
.
The clothes were wet,
the boddice clear,
it’s white met
with the river’s tears,
the overflow, a strangled moan,
her eyes own rivers met the stones.
.
The thoughts were base,
the action pure
that dragged her to that place,
where pebbles grow
to build death’s throne,
her pockets full of offered stones.

Red, Red, Red

Kyle Shanebeck — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 07:56:46 +0000

Anger, yes. Anger, anger and a
Strong compulsion, and
Violence, violence before a silence
Like plunging through an ice hole,
No fishing line, but water,
Cold and sharp as a hook
Plunging in my eye, suspending
All the world in silence,
Silence.

Anger, yes, but also passion.
Ruled by love these
Actions moved, stop, then
Move a fraction of an inch,
Metal picture, move again, a
Thousand images moving in
The mind, images in my
Mind and love the puppet
Master,

A thousand strings to every
Muscle, beholden to the heart.
Sinister, quite sinister this
Comedy of mine. The
Set a house, the characters a
Family, a family of five. There
Laughs my boy in the garden
Front, in front the house out in the
Woods,

Brow wet with sweat, soaked
Shirt, shovel clenched by
The iron trap of fingers. How
Sunlight glistens through the window
Sill, glistens on my daughter, still,
Silent, sleeping with a pillow
Over her eyes. How bright my
Home, with screams of laughter up the
Stairs,

Joyous, so joyous the breath and
Racing heart of the flesh who
Cleaved unto my own, the flush,
A bowl of petals, floating
Red under her eyes. My hands
Upon her lily’d throat, the petals
Drained, breath held in ecstasy, both
Our gazes smiling on our baby
Boy,

Baby, baby, bouncing baby
Boy, playing in the watered tub,
Content to sit beneath the ripples
Dropped from the shower head,
Content because he did not know, did
Not know he was already dead. Dead Haha!
Dead-dead-dead-dead-dead, six
Months to learn to laugh and eat, but not to
Swim.

And red behind my eyes, red that pours
Out from wells in the corner of my
Sight, red floating clouds in white watered
Tub, red kisses on a lily’d throat,
Red hands on pillow white, red
Sweat upon a brow staining the
White threads of a shirt, the ground, a
Shovel’s edge, here, red wet upon my pale white
Hands.

Anger? Anger, yes, but also love,
Love for this beatific scene
With house and family. All
Silent like that icy plunge,
Bodies frozen, air still, except for
Me. Over and over the movie plays
With their laughter in my head, with me,
The painter, my face and clothes and hands in
Red.

After A Death

Kyle Shanebeck — Sat, 12 Feb 2011 06:55:46 +0000

These wings stay furled-

unwanted- forgotten perhaps

how to fly- all the

feathers abused- broken

bloody and used to

do anything now but

to soar- After so

many years- sitting-

rusting- one would think

the poor wings would

have cried- but perhaps

all this time- the stiff

pinions of this mind

merely waited for

when- doubting died-

So- here it goes

dreamer- shake

the tears from your

side- let the dew

fall dear sleeper- thus

ladened- you’ll never

relearn how to fly-

These wings shake for

hope- unfrightened-

the palsy will pass

in it’s time- and

though stretching is

stiff and painful for

now- one day soon you’ll

be strong- you will fly-

V

Kyle Shanebeck — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 20:56:18 +0000

Encased in marble bright, closed

seupulchered – entombed – Death waits

patiently. Like the alabastor cherubim

that guard the door of this marble

ship, anchored at the Port of mortality,

Death sits upon the bier of

eternal sleep with intentional riggidity.

How bright, how luminous her lily’d

countenance seems! Yet how strange

that though the moon is bright and

streams through the casement set above

the grave, all light is drawn, devoured

in the patience of her gaze. Oh

piercing gaze of patience, you

rent my heart in two when I

walked abord that ship of stone

that some will call my tomb.

Her back is straight, her smile

wide and wtih the barest inclination

of her chin, she draws all the living

to her side. And with that smile

which tears body and soul apart,

she bids the spirit set sail, depart

for the golden shores of eternity. But

for the body that remains, there gleams

a secret malice in Death’s eyes. As

soon as spirit is without, she lays

upon the flesh with a shout of

jealousy and sets her iv’ry teeth to

the throat of mortality. Oh blood!

how quicly spewed to stain Death’s

skin, dark crimson tide, yet turned to

dust before her hunger satisfied.

Moonlit tears fall from the edifice

of her stony cheeks, gaunt but patient,

still, she weeps, all around the ashes

lie. One day soon she’ll devour herself,

and who will weep for Death? Not I.

Window Pain

Kyle Shanebeck — Sat, 29 Jan 2011 21:58:37 +0000

Behind the glass of indecission, you stand.

Illuminated picture show of silence- where

the warmth of filaments glow, burning

in their breath-less worlds of halogen.

Light escapes that smokey atmosphere and

sets your countenance ablaze- that self-same

light refracts toward me and rushes out the

window pane that holds you in my gaze. You

breathe in- all breath is caught up in your

lungs, or perhaps in the corner of your

smile- you breath out- light wavers, windows

swell, and conversation stills. How cold

breathing seems in the world they

call “outside,” where even the air

can see it’s breath crystalize on the

window ‘tween our eyes. The glass

that lets the light flow out, reveals your

stunning smile, and reflects my face so

close to yours that we could almost be

touching. But here the glass in window

lies- though you look at me, there

is no light to show my face inside. You

are the filament, and your own reflection

is all the glass will ever let you see.

The House Where Nothing Grows

Kyle Shanebeck — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 01:05:53 +0000

How silent is the house

where nothing grows.

Dead,

lie the tender shoots of love

that spent ten years of trusting,

to break through the concrete

floor of this home. Long were they

in finding purchase, briefly did

they bloom.

How silent is the house

where nothing grows, how

breathless;

space gasps in every room, and soon

the gag of silence will have

robbed this home of those who

once laughed, and breathed into

the walls their vitality. But

trust died so long ago, the ones

who used to love no longer sow

into the fertile founations, and so

they are quelled, ingrown

now hard and cold.

How silent. Is the house

where nothing grows still

breathing?

The lives that sleep

beneath her eaves no longer know.

Once love may have bloomed, now

the air is tepid, and nothing flowers,

nothing grows.

Fasting

Kyle Shanebeck — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 21:29:45 +0000

man does not live by bread alone

he feasts on banquets yet

unknown to us, bread he can

have, bread he can hold, but

when he is dead and

that bread grows the mold

of mortality, man is

still hungry. Hungry for life

apart from the grave, hungry

to know what it means

to be saved from

starving.

Man does not live, he

only dies, atrofied, because,

when he had no bread

he ate himself, first from within,

then consumed his brother

at his side.

I am so hungry, it soon may

be I cannot contain this

monster inside

that longs to eat my brothers

while they’re fresh. How I
am famished! Even now i feel

the evil behind my eyes that

fights to win control,

who promises to satisfy the needs

that rule my life,

and I must give in, if

I don’t I’ll surely die.

Oh God you must end me,

how can I live like this

tonight? Knowing all

that you would give me

and still not have

the strength to control

myself, and do

what’s right.

The god’s Children

Kyle Shanebeck — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 03:40:03 +0000

Once, heard I, ancient

peoples knew rain was

a sure sign the gods

played and sprayed their

semen indiscriminant upon

the plain, thus, knew we,

the grain impregnant

with fertility would

grow. But the god,

says you, has yet to

do right for the child-

ren of his seed, and

we hear our mother

cry, we built this

concrete condom

between her and the

sky, and we no longer

sow, because, believed

we, he will care for

nothing that we grow.

To Mr. Donne

Kyle Shanebeck — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 06:31:14 +0000

Death, thou shalt die

and all your machinations come

to naught. you have learned

the wire is woven ’round your

neck, and though you do not breathe,

it will strangle thee. I was taught

to fear the ice cold touch of your hand,

but I see now your bones are brittle,

your sinews dry, your muscles

atrofied and sunken into

your sightless eyes. And your

promises are nothing. Embrace

me Death, and you shall find

that though you kill me,

I will rise again eternally

and you will perish.

Death, thou shalt die.