Tag Archives: dislocation

A Thorn in Her Flesh

Rebekah stood before the black wire fence,

looking out onto a sky, a whole entire world,

a deep and cold blue in the late evening.

The wind was cool on her bare arms,

standing there in thin t-shirt and jeans,

not anticipating the cool of the night in the desert.

The fence was behind the hotel, to keep out

the coyotes and predators, those also on two feet.

She watched the horizon, expecting something, fearing it.

She and her friend, a trusted male friend, very rare,

sat in a loud sports bar. She nursed a weak and pale beer.

He watched her over his burger. Wanting to say something.

She smiled for him, took a sip of beer, tried to watch a game.

The noise and lights and motion and thumping music was

making her jittery, only worsening her anxiety and dread.

They were headed to Mt Shasta. To Northern California.

Was it foolish to go there? To test these dreams and fears?

She wanted out of this loud bar. The fearful quiet was better.

She lay on her bed, the hotel room had two, and though sleepless

was still and in a dreaded, alien peace, without her phone and it’s

music and videos and baubles, that soothed the thorn in her flesh.

The outline of the streetlight outside made shapes of husks and demons,

and she feared that she was mad and she feared the demons were real,

and she feared that nothing would ever let her escape these things.

Her friend slept easy. Maybe as a man he was much better and choking

and stamping down all these black and corrosive feelings, pretending

it was all alright. The shadows shifted. The outline reached for her.

Nothing would ever set her free.

Advertisements

The Stars Pulling Off Their Masks

Smoking? When did I start smoking again?
Filterless Camels like before, one after another,
futile against stress, nerves and dead AM Channel static.
I realize I’m sitting alone again, looking down on the city,
waiting for it to beautiful in it’s distant, golden lights
as the sun goes down, and there another one in my fingers.
I don’t remember buying them. I don’t remember picking the habit
up again after all this time, and I don’t even remember driving here,
but here I am again, after work, not wanting to go home.
I sit on my car’s hood, windows down, an enveloping synthpop love song
playing, wrapping me in warmth and peace, like being hugged tightly
by a plump and soft woman, one who loves you dearly.
I stare out into the city lights coming up, the stars pulling off their masks,
and, as I work my way through the pack of smokes, dream of her,
the earth goddess, the one who plucks the strings of devotion, thrumming light.
The song plays on repeat. It is the first of autumn, and it’s growing chilly,
almost bitter as the sun fades away, but the cold is calming, peaceful,
reminds me of something lost, when all was well.
I cannot keep the Bad Thoughts away forever, not with the city lights,
the stars showing me their faces, or the beautiful, embracing love song.
The come again and again, and maybe the stress is why I forget so much.
One last cigarette, and then I’ll have to face the room without treasures,
the thoughts that intrude like a rude neighbor couple screaming at each other
at 3 AM, hating each other, unable to leave and unable to stop.
I try to hold onto her, and the music, and all the sweet and innocent things
that slip away from me, harder and harder to call back all the time.
I try to imagine kissing her, warm and pale lips. I try to imagine being full of love,
Like her.

The Devil’s Highway

The Devil’s Highway, through the desert, to the graves so quiet.

I wait for night, for the moon’s bone glow, the stars run wild.

I wait for the snow now that summer has gone by, a bad dream.

Off the side of the road, smoking a cigarette, laying on the car’s hood,

as I look up at the sky, where little grey men fell down, left for dead.

Another world, just a rich man, with gold in his pockets and knife to our throats.

Angels come through only sometimes, like the cracking up radio stations,

as I drive onwards to whatever bad dreams are yet to come, like Obsolescence.

They may be there, they may not, but don’t you ever lay even money on it.

And the first snowflakes fall into my naked glow headlights, like gossamer tears.

Stars above, stars below, and maybe we can pretend it’s Eden, the world clean and sweet.

Two thousand miles to go nowhere, but here I am, and the answers are no closer.