One crease short of a paper crane,
I fear the final fold.
When wings, complete, extend for flight,
I know it’ll leave me cold.
Skip the epilogue,
comfort is in the mystery.
The chapters before will suffice
to veil pages of possibility/misery/clarity.
I refuse to think it through
what will it achieve
to punctuate these thoughts
when I no longer be
Hands of ivory, sapphire, ruby,
pour freely the oriental tea.
Into a pot filled to the brim,
displacing the blood within.
Onto the saucer onto the floor,
crying bitter over split chore.
Crimson capes refuse to wrinkle,
all bread but bacon belittle.
Flung into fire for foreign ghosts,
in absence produces some tasty toasts.
Crave the edges or the crumbs,
sit and sulk and suck our thumbs.
The fault really lies between,
the seamstress and her machine.
Cheap yarn spins a weak fabric,
tensions rise and rip; tragic.
a fading fire
in dark woods,
I am stranded.
a waning moon
in the thick of branches,
is tangled.
this night, undefended.
its light, long departed.
howl as
the wolves would,
pained and long.
for you’ve packed
up all your bags,
and gone.
It’s dawn but we still stay, adamant within our paper forts. Last night a breath of fire razed everything we’ve built to scorched earth, and among the ashes we erected an unsafe haven from the letters that we kept. A hope misplaced, that from these words we’d sketch a blueprint, a time machine.
They came to lead us away. In the flashes of lightning and peals of thunder, split second recollections strike the ground before us and we remember; her sweet smile and captivating demeanor, the way she sang and danced into our deepest soul; how we put her there, on a pedestal, without the slightest footwork on her part.
Away from self-destruction. One more to a wrist full of scars every time she barks, a bonus if she bites. “This way”, the voices from River Styx whisper, but we’ll never find our way out of here,
if we keep looking back with craned necks.
would you know me through my words
when you read them off a screen
its lens already distort
before your schema does
you only know these words
they may stand for nothing
but to lay inscribed
flushed but never justified
one thing’s for sure
they aren’t meant to be sung
or uttered
forming too close to where they have not sprung
they are cold and
distant
unfeeling
like the brain
where it should be parsed.
She has sprung from her resting place, where six feet of massive roots dig deep; nine months we’ve waited. No time to lose, a wave of “hello again” and we’re off to play.
summer.
This space between
is a deep ravine
dividing yours
from mine.
It’s an impasse
we cannot cross
save with blood
and broken binds
Side by side
yet far apart
find in the distance
we may convene.
We’ll run till we bleed
but never meet;
we are parallel lines.
where rhythm is lost
to recycled air
arteries choke
and purple
a harder squeeze
gleans the harvest
every drop
is wrung
all it was
more than it could be
now it is
less than it should be
into a jar
best sealed tight
dull the noise
a slowing beat
when all life is drained
and it feels no more
it’s ready for the test
back in the chest.
Keep your act up
and always smile
they see the surface
they can never tell
You pierce yourself
at fingertips
feel the rush
of life in drips
Never falter
till you’re alone
till self deceit
is your receipt;
a steel strong meat
needs not retreat
for what blade cuts
this iron heart?
someone told me someone said
the faith we have is dead
that there’s nothing more to life
than struggles of endless strife
someone told me someone said
till death we ought to merry-make
that all the whiskey and the wine
is for us to drink, die, and dine
someone told me someone said.
I stopped listening and cleared my head
I found out for myself first hand
the faith I have in my God’s plan.
