Dead Rock

I used to think the world would always go on,

even after we destroyed all our race had built,

even after we were all gone.

 

But maybe we’re really burning it all to the ground,

and it will all be dead and lost, just another dead rock

spinning in empty space.

 

It’s snowing. Fat and wet flakes. It’s after 10 on Monday.

The world looks clean. The world is silent. Crunch of feet.

The girl I adore said: “I love you.”

 

Moments as it runs away. Before the bloodshed and destruction.

I remember her warm hand in mine. Her arms squeezing tight.

So few left. We blew it.

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Masochistic Pantomime

I know now, and I should have known then, there’d never be wedding bells.

I sigh, watch a women’s soccer game, drinking dry red wine, eat too sweet caramels.

So many years, and social media show me her life, and that I was a moment in time.

I loved her, and I had to go looking for her to re-open the wound, masochistic pantomime.

 

I loved her. If ever I really loved a woman, not just infatuated or lonely, or lust,

but truly loved and cherished and let her in to stand side by side until the dust,

it was her.

But it was not to be, and should have let it be, that much I know for sure.

 

My team’s up 1-nil. I’ll fall asleep in this recliner, and my head will swim,

even when I wake up, but I’ll remember and smile if they hold out to win.

Melodramatic again. The past has nothing to offer. You can’t go back again,

to when they were there, when you and here were one, a self abusing sin.

All It’d Take

Maybe it’s just me and my mind talking shit again, dealing with the turmoil by fantasizing that I’ll end everything and therefore end the turmoil forever.

Standing at the subway station, hearing the dull rumble of the train coming, feeling the hum of my bones, that rattles my very thoughts, makes my heart throb.

Just one step. Just one step. All it’d take. That one more step.

I don’t move at all.

The train squeals into the station, drags to a stop. The doors open and all the people get out, and I push my way in, among the harsh lights and quiet rage.

Heading home, the rat show of my gnawing and hungry thoughts undiminished. It goes on and I go on. Just dragging myself to another day.

The train car rocks and shakes, and everyone makes sure not to look at anyone else. Whatever we’re all facing, we’re facing it alone.

Snaps in Synapses

He thinks himself the night watchmen, on a lonely, dark guard tower,

looking into the night for the evil things that he says are coming for us.

In his room, looking at a glowing screen, searching through the air,

looking for secret codes, he says he sees it all.

He says he’ll be the first to see the Son of Man coming in the clouds.

 

I sit in my room, and I once was like him, a paladin of some renown.

But the evil is not out there, in the dark and in the night, coming for us.

The evil is here, in our hearts and brains and our fists, in our very flesh.

The codes are snaps in synapses, and the mind makes math of fear and loss.

The Son of Man is not coming in the clouds, only rain, rain, rain, that will never clean us.

 

I write her into existence, this itch in my brain, this hope in my heart.

A woman, a meandering and flawed angel, sneaking smokes in an alley.

One who held onto the code of love even as the color drained from her eyes.

I write her into existence, with fierce eyes and prideful pout, and so much rage.

The Son of Man is not in the clouds, but I need a dream, and someone to listen.

Whimsy For A Buck

I stayed over with some friends, not part of what was going on.

I played Sonic on an old Genesis, as they drank, smoked, laughed.

I’m first up, and I walk outside, spring morning, mists hanging low.

Their dog is friendly, nuzzles my hand, demand attention from me.

 

Louisville morning, wide open fields behind the house, as if free.

I scratch the dog’s ears and head, and feel closer to him then them.

It’s spring, summer on it’s way, but it’s still cool in these dim mornings.

I wonder why I came here at all. I wonder what I thought I would find.

 

I pat the dog’s head and go back inside, as he whines at the door.

I’ll make coffee and I’ll watch TV until the others are awake.

Silly cartoons better than morning news or endless infomercials.

But silly cartoons are just selling you something, whimsy for a buck.

 

My mind is calm, despite the fitful sleep from 4 to 6, anxious dreams.

I sit in a recliner, drink my coffee, watch brightly colored shenanigans.

The coffee is hot and grounds me to the earth, as I feel as light as clouds.

I may go to college. I may go to war. I may finally leave this life behind.

Prophet/Seer

The war goes on. A war is coming here.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do.

There is no prophet. There is no seer.

 

A young couple, hipsters, with a baby daughter.

A happy family.

A happy family.

Soon this town will be washed under water.

 

I watch the city lights; how long will they burn?

My home has never welcomed me.

My home has never welcomed me.

We are monkey smarts that only know to burn.

 

She sits beside me, as I stop in front of her house.

She touches my face.

She touches my face.

She is the flesh of the word and love I espouse.

 

She sits besides me, the angel I rely on.

She holds my hand.

She holds my hand.

She sits beside me, and we make another dawn.

Love As Flaming Sword

We may have outrun the sun.

We may have outrun everyone.

The radio had the songs that knew.

The radio had the songs that knew

how I felt for you.

 

A show, and late night Krystal’s.

A show, and crashing at Bristol’s.

I was in love with you, unrequited dream.

I was in love with you, soft as a moonbeam.

I was in a dream.

 

The road could go anywhere.

The road could outrun despair.

The radio played that song I adored.

The radio played that song as my heart unmoored.

Love as a flaming sword.

 

At Bristol’s, I lay awake on the floor.

You sleep on the couch, a heart at war.

The road brought us hear to rest.

The road takes us to what we know best.

The road will take you out west.

 

And I will stay.

The Insects Hunger

There is rain, almost a drizzle, making the world grey and muted.

The word came down today, that Satan’s damnation is commuted.

The TV flashes on, without sound, tells us this with mirthless heads.

There is only softness in her navy blue hoodie, not in Lucifer’s reds.

 

I change the channel, looking for softball, volleyball or some soccer.

Satan always wins, and God looks away, if it’s cancer, or if it’s a stalker.

Young woman, strong and bright, with a dream that has pride, not gold.

I drink unsweetened tea, sit in my recliner, a voyeurism so grotty and old.

 

She sits, in her navy blue hoodie, and dark sweatpants, not watching TV.

I dream of us running away, into the Appalachian forests in an old RV.

She looks down at a fashion magazine, her angel wings fluttering air.

I dream of us running away, but there are silver crosses woven in clothes we wear.

 

A soccer game comes on, my college team against another mountain school.

In the deep forests, in those dark nights, the insects hunger, a hunger so cruel.

Young woman, so strong and bright, and I fade away farther, a dream out of gear.

She reads a fashion magazine, smiles, as she knows her reward is very near.

Full of Wonders

Almost six thirty; just a few minutes till.

I have to get up, I have to go to work.

 

I slept the whole night through,

but still exhausted and worn out.

 

I, for a moment, indulge in the dream

of calling in sick.

 

I get up, get dressed, get my backpack.

I get unsweetened tea to drink on the way.

 

I’m still tired and my mind is eating itself.

I’m still tired, but I head in, do the work asked.

 

For a moment, a soft song, a sad song, soothes me.

For a moment, the dark world feels full of wonders.

Elven Queen

Too haunted by paths not taken,

the soft heart that did not awaken.

Too haunted by things I can’t change,

try to find ways to go and re-arrange.

 

Elven looking girl from high school,

that by a gregarious king might rule.

Silken blonde with the crinkling nose,

and the navy blue and practical clothes.

 

Tolkien or Brooks, I might have seen light,

in the madness that took me into the night.

I should have been that girl’s friend, instead.

Her kindness, a star shining in my lost head.

 

One time, heading to Louisville, us in backseat.

Sharing bits from a nice chocolate, sugary treat.

I came away from hell for a slice of afternoon.

It ended, getting her too her home too soon.

 

We talk of music, and she’s that Fae queen now.

With her sweet son, and her atavistic chow-chow.

We talk in messenger about dreams, and a bit of peace.

I’m becoming the man I should have been, piece by piece.

 

Wisconsin so much farther than Louisville, but stars shine again.

And as spring comes, and warmth grows, maybe good can win.

Soft music, with it’s sorrows, bitter sweetness, plays on headphones.

Maybe I can be a prince, even in a kingdom of spite and military drones.