Tidings of Light Before the War

There she sat, Death, drinking a beer on the stoop, not a care in the world.

It was summer in New York, a tiding of light before the war, Death watching, amused.

No lamb blood to smear on our doors to make her passover, all would fall this time.

She watches a young couple walking hand in hand, she watches children play in the park.

She watches a chronic bachelor smoke and read a military thriller, imagining glory.

She watches a girl who is waiting anxiously for a boy, a boy who stole her heart.

She drinks her beer, looks upon all she will reap soon enough, all we throw away.

Diffident and distant, she cares not for this world; This is just a 9 to 5 in heaven.

But we will care, when all our vanities burn the world to ash, no lamb blood to pass us over.

Advertisements

Sunny Day

Light and flaxen pixie cut, white and black striped shirt,

and black capris with her brand new ballet flats.

She is walking light as the sun has come around again,

giving warmth, comfort to her, and fat, spoiled house cats.

Winter is over.

A latte, and a cheese Danish, sitting in front of the coffee shop,

watching the world become bright, the people seem easy and kind.

She sips her drink, a rare treat, and feels hope, mad, welling in her breast.

The cold nights, the winds through her heart, have slipped from her mind.

Winter is over.

Down at the park, feeding split grapes to the ducks that swarm and honk,

finding amusement in such a childlike thing. Such a simple thing.

She sees a young couple walking hand in hand, and she smiles, no knots.

She’s not reminded that she was nearly choked by a diamond ring.

Winter is over.

Winter is over.

Rochester

Johanna is riding shotgun,

in charge of changing tapes

and reading the map to me.

Telling me how the wind blows.

Up to Rochester, to the border.

The snow will dampen the scent.

The night will give rest to us, for a season.

Spring means dodging hellhounds.

Right now, our de facto song plays.

A vampire gets some poet boy high.

Damnation makes for stirring words.

I hold her hand. She smiles. Evening.

You can never outrun these demons.

Find solace in motion and music, touch.

We’ll make love in a roadside motel room.

But night will only give rest for a season.

Angels Lighting Candles

We’ve made it to Colorado, up in The Rockies.

The Red of Autumn is turning brown into white.

Our car is out of gas, we huddle together on

the steps of an old stone church, out in nowhere,

beneath the sky full of stars, angels burning candles.

The wind is crisp, becoming harsh through the night.

We cling to each other in the alcove of the doorway.

We whisper the secret words the angels taught her.

We whisper the verses that promised that we’re loved.

Will one of the angels come down and kiss our heads?

Who will come in the morning? Friend or Enemy?

Can’t trust a Jesus Thorns to have made a tender heart.

But we’ve got nowhere lese to go and nowhere to hide.

We’ve got to make it to the sea, so we can see again the sun.

Will those angels send a friend? Do they believe we’ve bled enough?

Floofy Pom Pom

I ordered a knitted beanie for a waitress.

Floofy pom pom. Black with white snowflakes.

Silly, I’m sure. She’ll never fall in love with me.

But her smiles, her kind words, my soul partakes.

So cold, and it’s starting to snow, flashes in the night.

Hot coffee, and chili, and nervous, fluttering butterflies.

She’ll be on shift soon, and this shit day has made me eager

to see her happy face, to see her when I give her her surprise.

Living alone, all to myself, I want to give a friend a gift.

It’s cold this winter. Give her something she needs in this cold age.

I see her coming in the door. I look down, heart pounding.

I’m just an errand boy, the knight of romance’s  errant page

Crying In My Car

The Fort is quiet this late at night, right before dawn.

Way on the backside of James Agee Street, I cry alone,

listening to that song that always soothes me,

when The Demon is so close to getting out of his bottle.

Bottle it up and don’t drink whiskey bottles, the bottles

that break his bottle and let him out and let him roar

and let the hateful words I hide in my heart cut them open,

bleed out from the heart, blood can’t put back in a bottle.

The woman sings, soft and ethereal, as delicate as an angel’s

whisper in your ear and holy fuck I’m almost another year older

and I still am chained to that demon and his cracking bottle,

the cracks held whole by will and fear. He’s getting powerful.

No bottle to break the bottle. Only her singing as the sun slowly

shakes off the cold of the underworld to light the world one more day,

and even in this bitter winter it feels so calming and warm to feel the rays

on your skin, almost like a lover, almost like an embrace.

The song repeats. I repeat it over and over until the venom recedes,

and the fear and hate drain away, like blushing color from peaceful cheeks.

She sings, a de facto angel for me, as at the party it come so close to exploding,

and you can’t funnel the blood of the heart back in a bottle.

Finally soft again, I clean up my face, and walk into work.

No Garden Against The Fire

Jules left her boyfriend sleeping in the tent.

She sat by the fire, drinking piping hot and bitter

campfire coffee, hearing the gunfire from the city,

not far enough away, still close enough to catch them.

The mountains will burn to in the fire, all left as ash.

No new shoots of grass would shoot up again,

no clear waters, cool and clean, would flow again.

No new life would come here ever again.

The angel in the sky had crumbled, stone eroded,

and all the pieces were without light, and the wings

torn and useless, the halo fueled on the hellfire split open,

as a venerated demon let it loose, not seeing damnation coming.

Her boyfriend Sebastian comes out, finally awake. He sleeps fear away.

He sits beside her on the log in front of the fire. They sit in silence, not touching.

“Maybe we should go deeper into the forest.” He says.

“There’ll be no Eden there. No peace. No garden against the fire.”

Jules drinks her coffee. The sunlight as useless as his kisses. As useless as hope.

October

Oh it’s cold, it must be the end of October.

The leaves are red, the plants have wilted,

and I shiver with you, my precious retriever,

to keep me company, keep me warm, sane.

The men are maggots, feeding on the corpse

of the world and all we ever managed to build.

You, buddy, and my daddy’s AR-15, to keep them

back, and my legs to get away. I run like the wind.

Men take anything they can, anyway they can.

You, buddy, the only male I trust, hiding with me.

These forests that were Eden when I was young.

Will they keep me safe now, hide me away now?

You and me, buddy, hiding in this barn tonight.

Still hay inside, soft and sheltering, better than the ground.

I know the sun and the stars and how to follow.

The angels in the sky, to lead me somewhere better.

Where men aren’t beasts. Where I can sleep innocent.

Babylon

Up on the forest, up in the mountain,

What is this angel you seek this summer morning?

Someone left a letter and scribbled words

but that prophecy didn’t tell you Jerusalem was empty.

All us, all God’s children, are still in Babylon.

Sleep in a wrecked car, or was that The Green Man?

The pillows and blankets can’t keep out The Man coming.

The stars still shine just as bright from a hole in the ground,

and The Green Man is always taking blooms from blood.

All us, all God’s children, are still in Babylon.

The kitten might have eaten soft flesh, nothing personal.

Feral know without your kind hand to soothe it.

On the road to Jerusalem, the city on the hill, there are angels

but demons too, and you don’t know which by their smiles.

All us, all God’s children, are still in Babylon

The World, Windless

She is wearing a black hoodie, hood up,

her long golden hair cradling her face.

Well worn blue jeans, thin and faded.

Her black Converse tattered from her pace.

She gets on the back of my motorbike,

ride past strip malls, fast food joints, pay-day loans.

The loss of the sky and of the sun is coming,

me and her both feel it in our cold bones.

We ride to the mountains, not yet taken

by men of god for greed, not spoiled by avarice.

Cooler over the borderline, shade of Eden, remnant.

The hearts of men are black and cadaverous.

Pull over by the wild and clear and charging river.

I hold her hand as we make our way to the shore.

We sit, and listen to the water, and the lonely birds,

her head on my shoulder, our hearts still raw, sore.

And we lie back, cuddle close, like children look up

at the blue sky through the tree branches, endless.

Dreams unwound, of amazing crystal kingdoms, innocent.

When death comes it will be silent, the world windless.