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Saint Rachel

I ran away from my town. Here I am.

Asleep in my car. A dark parking lot.

Where you go, it’s there, everywhere.

 

From interior, to coast, to mountain.

Same songs. Same voices. Same stores.

All the people have the very same faces.

 

Mt Shasta, where the deros live beneath.

I might catch one of their very bad dreams.

Aliens numb us, to eat us like honeycomb.

 

Driving to The Rockies, I hold out hope.

Saint Rachel’s spirit might linger still.

And her spirit might touch my face.

Demon

You dare speak her name, demon?

The starlight makes you too cruel!

I would have married her, if she wanted.

You stick around because this is all sport.

 

The sea is swallowing us, like Atlantis, NYC.

We choke it’s smallest life, choking ourselves.

And demon, you won’t let me have the waves,

even a moment’s peace in the mermaid songs.

 

She is better than you demon, so she went beneath

the tall grassy plains, to the heavenly core at the

center of the earth, while you and I are in the stars.

I fed you when I was young. I’ll never get rid of you now.

Bonfire

Young woman, auburn hair, smoking a cigarette outside a sketchy gas station on an interstate exit.

It is summer, but mild, and the sunset is dark and orange from Saharan sands blowing in, just one more thing.

She hopes she won’t be here forever, at the gas station, waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up.

The interstate tantalizing, it’s constant buzz, heading to Memphis or Asheville.

She hears it at night as she sleeps with her window open to keep cool, all those people going somewhere else.

She wonders if one day she’ll leave on that interstate. She wonders if she’ll find a place that is home.

Her boyfriend pulls up in his truck. She climbs in, flicks away her cigarette, and kisses his cheek.

They’re going to meet friends at the lake tonight, drink beer around a scrap wood bonfire.

And there’ll be a sky full of stars above.

Not Quite Peace

A time of wakefulness in the dark of night.

The soft rains soothing patter against the window.

In the dark, I get on my knees by the bed to pray.

The world is weary and old, and all are tired.

I fear so much, as the Red Dragon gathers strength.

Angels are hard to see through smoke in cities.

I feel not quite peace, but a soft soothing now.

I crawl into bed, and the rain is a lullaby.

I don’t if He hears, I hope it has meaning.

City

All those posters, praising peace and brotherhood,

are tattered and torn, worn down by sun and rain.

This country was like any other country, greedy, violent.

All our pretty beliefs and prideful words meant shit.

 

The city is crumbling, the elite live far away from here.

We were never free, and the piper has come for his gold.

We followed those pretty words to our early graves, far away.

We are left with nothing now, but sorrow and bitter tears.

 

On the roof of my apartment complex, the city shines still.

We make our place here, in the dark and in the cold, fight fear.

What might we make for ourselves, as oceans swallow this Atlantis?

What might be left for us, as the fires burn and sun is black sackcloth?

A Place For Light and Love

Empty streets, the pavement graffitied.

Family homes falling in on themselves.

Swimming pools, stagnant and brackish.

 

Winter is on it’s away, warm fading out.

Her and I take shelter here from war.

Families lived here once in these ruins.

 

From the wild yards we see the city skyline.

Glass towers blinkered, black and dark.

We here gunshots as we try to sleep at night.

 

In a basement made something like home,

we try to make a place for light and love,.

She is with child. What have we done?

Orchids and Thorns

On her birthday, a century after the war, her phantom lingers on in a wild, overgrown garden.

All that was her world is a rotting shell, but it still holds her to this world.

The hazy form of a formal girl, all in white with long hair, walks the broken paths.

The end was violent, their tears nourished orchids and thorns, but no trace of that is here.

I watch as her phantom lingers, and the wind bows the blossoms of bright flowers.

I am as lost, and as bound as she, as war came again, as even the living are haunted now.

Empty School Melancholy

The old school gym.

Still, prom decorations.

First of the summer sun.

Her and I, still in love.

We went to prom,

Right before the end.

We’d loved school.

We were planning much.

Then the end had come.

Melancholy in summer.

Like all empty schools.

We came, for memory.

We embrace, and sway.

I hum love song to her.

Carefree, for a moment.

Shaped From Ashes

I lay in the dark, under covers, on my second hand couch, looking at pictures of her.

Elegant and dark clothes, carrying the high and sharp features of an alien human hybrid.

The angel that hides her flaming sword in her mouth, and lays waste with her incantations.

Pictures I use to adore her and pore over her velvet eyes, the starchild that came to Earth.

I could dream of her, and I could feel my wings again, and shape worlds from ashes.

I could feel her coming down from the stars, with a cold smile of tenderness, to touch my face.