Monthly Archives: December 2018

Honeycomb

The invading soldier follows behind, drunkenly smirking, whispering to her.

He clutches at her hand, says he’s in love, to his passions he thinks she’ll defer.

The looks to the stars through the lush trees, to the quicksilver moon, sighing.

Men are fools she knows, so easily led and trapped, dicks leading them to dying.

 

She stops him, finally, in a open meadow in the forest, a riot of white stars above.

He’s pulling down his pants, grabbing at her blouse, blustering about being in love.

She found him at the tavern, with his invader brothers, and she led him away.

He bought her smiles and flatteries, and for what he’s done, his death will surely pay.

 

Drunk and eager, her trips over his own pants, tries to rise again to his wobbling feet.

From the back of her skirt she pulls the pistol, the night’s mission now almost complete.

He looks up at her, the pistol pointed at his head, and he is silent, to stunned to cry out.

She shoots him in the head, and that he is gone down to hell forever, there is no doubt.

 

She walks back on the path in the darkness, the stars silent but revealing the way home.

She remembers before death and war, being a girl, contentedly eating honeycomb.

She puts the pistol back in the waistband of her skirt, and knows war is a long burning.

Put wood on the flames, burn them to ash, until all of it is gone and there’s no returning.

Wild Dreams To Tell

Is it foolish to hope? To think a place could be made in the world for you, carved out from all that swirls and burns and taunts you from the sky?

First steps from the darkness, finally shrugging it off like an old coat when you come through the door.

Believing, that someone can love me, and not be disappointed.

She likes my jokes and knows the same lore and legend. Is she flirting with that smile? Am I just a light that she likes seeing.

Venus rises first thing in the morning, and is her light upon me? I can’t let myself get carried away, in restlessness and reckless I cannot ruin something that is love. Friendship is love. Maybe she loves me another way. Don’t assume though.

The first light after a long night. I am on shaky feet. My hands tremble. My smile is not quite right. She cares about me. She wants me around. I let myself love her, without expectations.

Buying a DVD set of a old school fantasy show, pretty elves fighting evil and greed. She asks me to tell her if it’s good. I tell her I will.

I float a millimeter above the ground. I have hope and warmth and not desperation. She is kind and sweet and funny and has wild dreams to tell. And she likes me.

She likes me.

Bird

The waters of the river flow on, unhurried and uncaring.

The wind whips the heads of the bright, yellow and white daisies.

The sky is eternal and blue and the clouds drift on by.

 

A bird pulls on a worm, pulling it up from the ground.

I hold my side, trying to staunch the bleeding, crying out.

The sniper’s bullet cut me down. The bird pulls at the worm.

 

My hands covered in my own blood. All of it pouring on green grass.

The river flows on. The wind whips the daisies. The clouds drift on.

The bird pulls at the worm.

 

The bird pulls on the worm.

Xeroxed Face

I sit at the outside picnic table, under the little tin covering, taking a moment.

I drink hot coffee that is nothing against the cold out here, but it soothes me.

It is late and dark, but the wind is still, and the bitterness stills my thoughts.

 

She went north. When it all slipped away, she went north. Childhood remembered.

Her Xeroxed face on the glass door to the all night gas station. I’ve heard all about her.

I head north. I want to follow her. There is no saving her. I am only another lost soul.

 

In the car, heat cranked all the way up, music all the way up too, swelter and thunder.

I see her face in my mind. It’s fallen apart for me too. I just want to leave. Cease to be.

I follow her north. Melancholy love songs are invocations. I have no safe place left.

 

North. To disappear.

Piles of Dirty Snow

A pretty face of a young woman, wholesome and bright.

Taped to the convenience store window, out in the woods.

Late at night, stopping for cigarettes, I see the missing poster.

 

Dead of night. Dead of winter. Heater blasting. A cocoon of music.

I drive through the naked forest and past the piles of dirty snow.

I drive on and on through darkness. I see the young woman’s face.

 

Love songs of pure adoration. Love songs soothing my seething mind.

The road unwinds on and on into the forest, up north to the border lake.

That young woman’s face lingers. We can all so easily slip away forever.

Pebble On A Window

We are not exchanging presents this year.

I tire of giving you books you never read,

that only feed your teary eyed piety and

mawkish arrogance.

 

I don’t know what I see in you now, what face

of a bitter man’s grace or regret of words not

understood, pebbles on a window, the sleeper

comatose.

 

The old Thai restaurant we went to, has nothing of

you left in cheap tables and greasy booths. I eat alone

now, and I dream of a young woman, hoping to not

think of you.

 

Winter, cold and wet, all the fallen leaves black sludge

in the gutter, and it suits my temperament, and sorrow,

that I cannot keep friends close, or make you understand.

Merry Christmas

Prisms Break Light

Dark hair tied in a frayed ponytail with a leather cord.

Dad’s old olive drab army jacket hanging loosely on her.

Her hand is cold on the hilt of St, Michael’s fiery sword.

The wings are second hand, also the Revelation it will confer.

 

There is no horizon for the war to be on, it is in every soul.

She will shatter like light in a prism to go and fight this battle.

Colors of her soul flung into the fray, to shine on what Lucifer stole.

Exhausted, and without sleep, she offers fire, love against a death rattle.

 

Someone sent word that it was Christmastime now, but Mammon won that.

Out here in Jordan, by that dammed river, it was just silence, plain afternoon.

She raised the sword, raised her voice, desperate and prayerful, rat at tat tat.

Jets that flew overhead were no use against demons, the sourness in God’s boon.

 

The fire of St. Michael’s silver blade, raised up and lighting her lined, tired face.

The war everywhere, all without end, Revelation not unmaking the bloodied fang.

In her sweat and dirt stained clothes, she become the broken light of battling grace.

Into this war, into this human world in it’s self inflicted death rattle, church bells rang.

Tel Aviv At Christmastime

The jets are ever overhead, draining my breath away.

Dull grey and hungry, they go out to the equally grey sea.

I have too many angels and bitter lords that I must pay.

Of this war, of this crumbling of safety, I will not be free.

 

Angels heal wounds and they make those wounds burn.

That woman I knew was an angel because she stole my eye.

The eye that sinned, they eye that devoured her in return.

My eye plucked by her thumb, the haughty smirk in proud reply.

 

Sweet wine in a Solo cup, as I drip a drop of blood on an 8×10 glossy.

Sell yourself to make that model the all powerful angel you adore.

A face of an angel and an alien, hybrids make the blue eyes bright, saucy.

What bitter tale, what refined sorrows, could this woman have in store?

 

It’s Tel Aviv at Christmas time, and I’m glad for no forced cheer or candy hues.

The angels are women who’ll wrestle you all night, if you have that coin of gold.

Under proud fists, under undenied aggression, you’ll lose all that a demon rues.

Beneath that woman angel, under her haughty smirk, your perfect ending is told.

 

Smoke and Summer

We sit in my car, drinking huge bottles of soda, and smoking cigarettes, just talking.

It’s after her waitressing shift, and she wants to be with me awhile, and I want her light.

All the stores in the strip mall closed. All dark and empty. Still too much light for the stars.

 

It’s December, and we shiver, and I start the car to run the heater, to turn all to swelter.

The radio comes on, and it’s a song from younger days, when we both loved the world above.

We sit, smoke and summer and something lost, all here with us.

 

The moon is the pockmarked face of Satan looking down on us from the sky, boogie man in the sky.

We cast some spell with our words, recalling a place that once came so easily to us before.

Our souls tentatively touching with invisible tendrils, hesitant touches, finding something beyond our skin.

 

I drive her home, the streets empty mostly, the lights favoring us, the threat of snow coming in.

Out in the sparse country side of Louisville I take her, the soothing of space and darkness.

In her driveway, before she gets out, she gives me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. I watch her go inside. I watch the spell end.

Littleton

Winter is here for the moment, all black sludge and rotting leaves in the yard.

Mud and torn away grass. Stillness as wiser animals sleep until the sun returns.

I’m heading to the First Martyr, the one who saved me, so long ago.

 

Cold and almost barren mountains, just tall grass and none of the deep forests.

Flecks of snow, not like the blizzards you’d believe. Sunlight brittle as sugar glass.

The journey here has worn me down, disarmed my defenses.

 

The first whisper of what would become the war was the Judas Kiss on her cheek.

But words scrawled and still remain, the memory of her keepers, allow her to speak.

I was a changed man even as I fell away. I am still her conversion.

 

I sit by the memorial, that brittle sunlight that shatters as it touches my skin,

and the harsh wind that makes me a ghost who is not there, but in a dream.

The war is almost here. I must peacefully resist.