the car seemed to be gliding on glass
the last inconvenient instant before impudent impact
the mangled mass of metal and his black crisp body
a spectacle for the masses, all 4 of them
2 volunteer fire fighters and 2 EMTs
later, his father, blind now in one eye
from America’s diabetes, had Ramona
drive him to the spot, to the dead oak
as big around as an oil barrel
dead long before Paul’s 1996 Ford Escort
decided to take a go at it
daddy had to see the place
that infinite space between
yesterday and the tomorrow
that would never come, even though
he had already seen, through his one good eye
his boy’s charred carcass at the county morgue
resting on a silver slab, the clean and cold bed
where he would spend his last night
before the fiery furnace,
Ramona and he could keep his ashes
no need for a big service, no money for one either
but Dub, “Paul's boss down to the auto parts store,”
opened his wallet as wide as it would go
for the cremation and a nice urn
Paul would be missed, by Daddy and Dub
and once in a great while, in the fast and furious world
of the flat gray town where he lived and died
someone would ask, whatever happened to
that old boy at the auto parts store
the one who limped a bit as he walked,
the one who rarely talked but always
smiled through his yellow teeth
when he placed the goods carefully
on the counter
I will bring you birds of prey
they will fall from the sky
like stones with my mighty shafts
through their hearts, no longer
ripping flesh with their piercing beaks
or snatching field mice with their terrible talons
I will quiet their ferocious screams
and purloin their gift of flight
I will place their fine feathered fops
at your feet, and my hubris will show
in mine eyes, with all the glory of the kill
you will wonder where my innocence
went to hide, how I learned to lust for blood,
to take my place in the pecked order,
to no longer mourn the death of the butterfly
whose screaming I once heard
against a black sky, but now is silent
I will bring you birds of prey
and celebrate the day
I became one of you
I didn't cry the day my grandmother died.
Perched in the canopy above my mourning family, dry
and marble faced, I tried and tried.
My mother, puffy and embittered, pondered me
between clenched teeth, "how can you be," she accused,
"so cold." As if it were the conscious decision
of an eleven year old to be stoic and silent
in wake of the black hearse which re-emptied
row after row of hard, ungiving pew. As if
I'd been doing so to spit in the direction of her
righteous tears, muddling our excrements
with soulful purpose to spite and embarrass.
I wonder now if once she ever wandered
down dirty dusted corridors high upstairs
to find that, triple locked, there resides an empty
box, which once and never again homed
a little dented book filled with homely secrets.
Erased and discarded pages that once contained
truths whose very ink was impained. Somewhere,
once, she caught her shadow harboring blame.
It's been ten years past that fatal day- the first dry
spell of a prideful self-dammed drought.
I move along quietly, and spitting all about.
It's coming up from under
Grappling me pulling heartstrings
Yanking me down to
Dance, dance baby!
C'mon lets go crazy, it's our night tonight!
Put your hands in the air
In the air
It's coming up to tear into my guts
I can feel its eyes on me
A scarlet beam of light lined up on my
Throw your hands in the air!
Drank, drank drank drank drank
Pour it up
Ooh c'mon baby
Come and look
It's gettin hot in this club
Grab a body get jumpin'!
Don't stop grindin'
Heavy mechanical breathing
It's so close
It's got a hold on me
This dancefloor is a romantic dream
Let's keep the party goin'!
Tonight is still livin'
Tonight is still livin'
Snarling fangs out now
It's ontop of
in every moment of despair,
it always happens
every time I love to fear —
fear to love.
But like the shores
wanting to reach the skylines,
I would always be wanting
to bind your lips to mine.
No one falls in love by chance,
it’s by choice;
but I chose to let go
to avoid being hurt.
I tried to hide
and bury my feelings
whenever you are near —
but my heart always fails,
for trying not to love you
only makes me love you more.
Wind gusts through darkening fields
Grant a somber chill to spoken words
Philosophy and inspiration are illustrated
through thrashing trees
Memories are carried in wisps
To land upon your lips,
Shared in whistling accompaniment.
I close my eyes against the burning
Listening to the song of nostalgia in your voice
My hair whips around my face and
I look up to meet your gaze -
We smile softly against the wind,
Smiling with content in your thoughts.
All I remember
is remembering it hurt,
memories are haunting me now
and reality altered into doubts.
The pale moonlit night
is full of futile tears,
crying for the hands
that once held me.
The hurricane in my heart
is crashing down all my senses
and changing those
that was in greater good
into countless worsts.
It is inevitable,
and killing me within,
and I was left nowhere
cursing the wind.
Every bridge I built
was already burned;
the particular journey
of this avowed love
is now over.
And all I remember
is remembering it hurt.
Silence: that slut in the back. Black dress. Puffing on a cigarette. Mouth closed, save for lingering filter holes. Lips vicious, taut, and red. Dragging twice quick on a cigarette. One knee South East, the other South West. Opened just enough to peep the regress. Slow exhale a cigarette. Counted: exactly sixty-four. Squares, along the bathroom floor. Suppose, twice, there could have been more. Quick flame, another cigarette. The smoke it pours and pours.
At the touch of love, some become writers.
I become the leader of a life more beautiful
than words are worthy of
So that scribbled-out lines and torn pages
Are now my works of art
And moments of laughter and bliss
Are what I am proud to display -
Reflections of my heart
as it now exists.
will I put lipstick on you
when you lay still and silent
as the last morning
or will you pull the sheet
over my face gently
with a surprised sense of relief
when my final breath
marries the gray air
will it be in the room
where we slept
under the watchful eye
of children and grandchildren
their timeless images nailed to the walls
ever present but mute
while they navigated worlds
with horizons we would never see
or would it be in the
hallowed house of hospice
where palliative words like
“we will miss you”
“not long now,”
“you can go, it’s OK,”
float above the beds
like birds stalled in flight
riding unseen currents, but
soon to swoop down
to perch on mystic memories,
before flying into
the karmic night