Tag Archives: suicide

Christmas Eve

The snow is coming in the bitter night,
and all the hushed candles and candy lights
and cheery hymns can’t chase The Devil out of my bones.

At the crucifixion, when Jesus was taken down,
Mary Magdalene washed the blood from Jesus’
swollen face, tenderly, maternally.

They did not let me wash my son’s face,
or anoint him in oil, or wrap him in a white
and pure burial shroud.

At the tomb, Mary Magdalene saw the stone
rolled back, and an angel, bright as the noonday sun,
telling her he is not here.

The room is empty of him, just a dull, low whine
and all the knick-knacks that don’t add up to a person,
and no son of light is telling me he’s come again.

Jesus touched Mary Magdalene’s face, wiped her tears
away and told her to tell the others, tell the world, He
was risen, he was coming again.

Sitting on his bed, too tired and worn out to weep,
there is nothing to touch, and he was not condemned
but by his own heart, his own mind, his own dreams.

He will not be back again.

Blue, My Favorite Color

The train rocks and shimmies and shakes,

and it almost lulls me to sleep, half awake,

like an infant in her mother’s arms.

No lullabies.

The brown townhouses, the little yards,

lights on in second story windows, life,

like tableaux for my god like eyes.

I am not godlike.

The Atlantic, I imagine cold, gunmetal gray,

and deep and as empty as the sky above it,

which will, perversely, be blue and bright.

Blue, my favorite color.

I sit on the beach, the Atlantic Blue, eternal,

and not a cloud in the sky, I drink iced tea.

I finish it, go under, lost like a drop in infinity.

Cold water doesn’t feel.


A lost child from the water has the most kissed face,

make clean and holy by the black river’s depths that
love my cherish a ghostly clean smile, full of light.
A daughter of Persephone holding Cairron’s hand
as the water erases every trace that held her name
from the world that gave her seeds of the underworld.
Kisses unfelt are still tender, though sparks shame heaven.
A face kept pure as it watches from the bedroom wall.
Tenderness sweetned by the bitterness of death scented breath.

The Ivory Tower That Welcomes The Lost

Las Vegas is bright by it is light invisible. There is nothing revealed. There is no warmth.

The songs of my youth, of infatuation and sorrow, call only ghosts whose teeth draw blood.

All night I was awake. All that came were bad memories. Aching for sweet things lost.

Nothing soothes this longing, for what I once held close, and for what’s never been.

The sun is coming up, and to the east, away from the city, it is blinding.

On the edge of the desert, a square of green dead ends into coarse sand.

Stately and new houses already abandoned, and I was late to the party.

Their are only ghosts here, and skittering shadows inside that don’t know my name.

Coffee at a kitchen table in a house that looks cozy, but demons ruin everything for me.

All my treasures and comforts offer nothing, where I have only time, and my buzzing thoughts.

I can remember the girl that bought me the poster for some obscure Russian art film I loved.

But she is gone, and I am here, and I can’t find where my new friends are waiting for me.

Coffee in a travel cup, a thin sweatshirt and sweatpants, and I’m heading to the desert.

There is an angel there, there is a tower of bright light and ivory, where she welcomes the lost.

She will hear the honeyed prayers and grant me rest, show me the way back to a home in this world.

Out in the desert she waits, the sun would not lie to me, would not lead me astray.

But still, there’s a gun in the glove compartment, if I’m let down one more time.

A Face In The Sky

A pretty dream, a face in the sky, my love.

                              A pretty dream, the face turned, love lost.


                              This car isn’t much, but it goes fast enough.

                              The drink makes me numb, deathly quiet.


                              Let it end, by the sea, so I can disappear,

                              To the depths, the dark, the place perfect.


                              I let her down. I cannot win. The Devil will.

                              I’m tired of fighting myself. I’m tired of madness.


                              There he comes, flashing lights, coming for me.

                              I’ll make the right wrong move, and I’ll be gone.


                              Pulling over, one last pull, I can leave forever,

                              For the dark and warm place, that’s only silence.

March To The Sea

Waiting on the train station, a drizzly dark winter morning,

               Heading to work before the sun comes up, but at least it’s quiet.


               Lucky people sleep peaceful and with someone holding them.

               Lucky people find a measure of peace in this world.


               My mind is dead and burning, nothing rising from the ashes.

               My heart cannot feel love anymore, not even for her, who I hold on for.


               I shiver, out of the rain but not out of the cold, and it’s an endless march,

               To the next day, the next morning, that never comes with a promise of relief.


               The train horn howls, the lament of a repentant demon, forever tormented.

               I’ll go to work, I’ll smile and be happy on the outside, I won’t let it show.


               I refuse the siren call of laying upon the tracks, to let the demon take me,

               To just no longer be here, because if I’m not here nothing hurts anymore.


               I’ll get on the train and soldier through and do my duty, the good son always.

               How can I hope for peace of warmth, when not even tears will come, just the rain?



Dull Blood Roar

The good times are finished.
The drugs and booze have
taken all the light and joy.
Only pain, wasted body, remain.
 The words don’t come now.
All so distant, dull blood roar.
There words still, from before.
Will they carry you forever?
 So, like the matador and warrior
you pick up the gun, pick up the key
and open the door to the cold night,
to the starless sky that swallows all.
 All you did to yourself, that made
a heroic name, burned you down
took all that was a dream in you.
The starless sky won’t give you back.

The Noise Unceasing

Myung-Hee,  knows the ghost is here, knows it’s loss.
A charm of silver around her neck, keeps her strong.
The tracks have known so many suicides and regrets.
Myung-Hee, retreats into her hoodie, hugs herself tight.
 Spirits of the dead linger, and this one, young girl broken,
whispers in her ear, how soft and quiet are sunless seas,
how warm the waters that soothe away the scars and blood.
Myung-Hee knows there is no peace on the other side, no quiet.
 Cold in her hoodie, wiped out and numb in her mind, she puts in
earbuds, to find the song her mother loved, that she still recalls
listening to, safe in her mother’s arms, soothed by her heartbeat.
The beat of the music, the hiss of the tracks, is a poor recollection.
 As Myung-Hee walks up the stairs from the subway station,
up into the lurid second daylight of the city, the noise unceasing,
the ghost gets left behind, wisps away into the depths of the station.
But there’s alway a ghost, always a temptation to leave.

A Suicide’s Baptism

Deep in the woods, endless darkness, only the stars above.
Trying to sleep in my tent, in my soft, warm sleeping bag.
Tactile comfort, maternal softness, as my mind breaks down.
Tears run down my face, no expression, as black metal blast my ears.

No light, but the untouchable stars, that shine with glittering inaction.
The maternal softness of my sleeping bag, some vestige of reassuring comfort.
The howl of the music, the rage at the light, soothes me in a death like sweetness.
They wanted to stop me, but they would not follow, into the dark, dark forest.

 The rivers rushes out in the night, the might river that washes you away,
a suicide’s baptism, flesh washed clean of sorrows and wounds and hate.
I could wash myself clean in the cold waters of death, the peace of ceasing.
I try to remember my first kiss, my sweetest moment. It’s lost for all time to me.
 The black metal rages on, the night will not end, and the river calls me on.
I cry harsh, ackaline tears though my face is without expression, without pity.
The dark woods are filled with the ghosts and demons of our own souls.
A nymph stands bright outside my tent, and I know her name, all too well.

A Duel of Wills In The Dead of Night

There were only a couple of sickly golden lights in the distance, several miles from the house I was staying. Up here in the foothills of The Applachians, neigbhors were sparse. The coal black sky was filled with stars though, and a ghastly pale moon.
I wished for a cigarette, years after quitting, years after feeling any desire for them. My hands were jittery, my mind fillled with an agiated bedlam. A cigarette with it’s harsh pleasure and rote action would distract from that.
It was late summer, the begining of September. Summer was still hot and humid and the wetness of the air made you sweat even still, even in the night. But there was already a harshness in the warmth that signaling the coming autumn and winter. Things would die off, and the dead season would come. But no respite or sleep would come with it.
I came in from the night, closed the door behind me, sat in the too bright room with it’s garish, ’70s era wallpaper and paneling, the rundown, cigarette burned furniture, the inane blanting of the radio.
On said radio a preacher was talking about the end times and Jesus coming back and the glorious elect been given their heavenly reward. I had it on, because even though I had no faith in a greater, supernatural power, and no love for anger, it soothed me to hear another human’s voice.
I sat in a hard easy chair, watching the ceiling fan spin and spin, the light chasing thin shadows on the peeling white ceiling.
I fell asleep, knowing it was coming.
 I saw her again. In a sundress, standing in a meadow, the soft, warm sunlight flitting through her long, black hair as the wind blew around her. She was looking away from me, down at the ground, but I could see the sad look in her blue eyes I knew so well. The madness that would eventually take her, the madness that I would make my own.
Her arms were crossed over her chest, like she was hugging herself. My heart ached to reach her, to hold her again, to feel her warmth, her softness, to smell the strawberry scented shampoo in her hair and the lilac smell of her skin. I ached to kiss those lips and tell her it was all going to be alright and perfect again.
I never make it to her. It can’t be better again. She is already gone.
 It is then I awaken, feeling a gauging shock in my brain. I cry out and my muscles jerk at once and I’m out of the chair and flung by my own body onto the floor. I cry out in aguish, as the thing in my brain is rooting around trying to find where I’ve hidden her soul inside my mind, so they can take her from me forever.
I close my eyes tight, my fists clenched against the sides of my head, as I regroup to fight off the demons that have come for her, the things that drove her to take her own life and leave us all behind. The demons that destroyed her will not turn loose, even after death.
I make it onto my knees, screaming my throat raw as I focus my energy to fight back against the demons, to keep them away from her, to let them take her to damnation. The demons fight back and dig into my mind and thoughts like an Eagle digging into the flesh of it’s living prey. I am in tears and even my muscles and very skin is on fire as I fight them off, a duel of wills in the dead of night.
Finally, they are pushed back for a moment, their high shreaking squeels fading out as I lay exhausted on the floor, sobbing and bodily wiped out, my mind a hive of static and noise and fire. I weep for a long time.
 At some point, I fall asleep, and I fade in and out of conciousness and dreams, between the waking and the dreaming, between the living and the dead.
She is there, still sad eyed and distant, still in her sundress. She is laying upon her side, looking at me, her head on her folded hands. She is crying. She is sorry and hurting. I try to tell her, not that it’s okay, but that I lover, and will always love her, and that I will find away for all these things to turn loose of her, and that she’ll walk in golden fields one day.
 Again, we are in the meadow. The wind is a warm wind of early June, and everything is green and alive and all the birds and creatures are singing. We are drinking wine, sitting on a blanket. I ache to her hear voice again, that girlish, lilting laugh she had.
In this dream, or vision, or wish, I put my hands upon hers, and lean forward and kiss her cheek, which is soft and tastes of salt.

There is water flowing. A clear creek clear and silver and cold. If she could only drink that water now.

 It’s the edge of dawn. My breath is ragged and I’m out of breath and my muscles ache and my head pounds like the fist of God upon the world. My eyes and tired and red and sore. My heart is squeezed inside a vice.
I feel her light though, in that secret place for her I keep safe, keep so her light will not go out.  It soft and warm and only a pinprick in the darkness. It’s all I need to keep fighting. I hear a song in the wind of her voice.
I crawl to the flat, hard and uncomofortable couch to sleep. I pull the smoke stained throw pillow over my face. Sleep, for what rest I can find will be sorely needed. They keep coming and coming for her. I cannot find the clear and silver water for her. I cannot yet send her to golden fields, where those demons can never touch her again.
 In the depths of my mind, where I keep her safe, her star’s binary light flashes out:
“I love you. I’m sorry.”
 “Some are born into sweet delight. Some are born into endless night.”—William Blake