It’s the small things.
The little ones almost missed,
But some strand of soul
Reels them in,
Adds them to the heap
Of silver and bronze plated memories
Stashed in the heart of hearts.
Locked away by ingratitude,
Who bars the door with steeled force.
But even a slip of thanks,
Could push him aside.
And flood the world with light.
1) October is a month for leaving
even the copper leaves
leave the embrace of the trees
2)Your ghost still haunts my bed.
If I made love to a priest
would that exorcise you
from my sheets?
3)Because I think we all have thought
about stepping on the gas
when we should have hit the brake.
They’re almost gone now a vanishing tribe
Peddlers of fresh sweets honeys from hive
Sellers of fish heads such sundries on head
Toys and bangles and blankets for bed.
Don’t see them around those struggling men
Making the choice of voice trudging the lane
Hoping to sell one piece in dream of gain
Faceless wind ringer in sun’s bite and rain.
Gone are those plaintive cries on summer noon
Raising road’s dust on trail singing the tune
Traders of trinkets girls’ ribbon hairpin
Yoyo and plastic top with endless spin.
Why the times ruined them made them a flop
Sellers travelers with head-full of shop
Sending their song of hope past locked in door
None could now fill that space nothing anymore.
- Let’s pour a little salt,
flavor the Earth,
so She’s the only one to remember
that we were ever here.
2. I painted Care and Sympathy’s portraits,
and (falsely) titled it Love.
And you hung it on your wall to remind yourself
you weren’t entirely alone.
But I’m sure you’ve taken it down by now
and it’s sitting in a corner, under the white sheet of time.
3. And if I faced death today,
I would like to think
I could face him without flinching.
As long as he would strike quickly, in the head or the heart.
I shouldn’t mind at all.
4. He called me tiny dancer
even though I couldn’t dance.
At least not very well.
He still insisted on waltzing
in my parent’s kitchen
despite my stepping on his toes.
darkness at the very edge
and far from silent
it has a vast sound at the verge of hearing
soft and insistent
clinging to you like a frightened child
you chase the source of light
seeking comfort in its warm familiarity
through the supermarket
where housewives steal trinkets of food
where men loose spare change
through the well traveled rail station
where men in long coats await the rain
where women of dire straights await rescue
clean the razors determinations
and know that the fine line reached
is the one between her mocking you
and the reality of your cold naked bleeding in the rain
no sweeping music can change the mistakes
no well placed words can undo the changes
and everyone may pretend not to see
but they all know
and they all lied
she awakens before dawn
standing at the kitchen table
holding a paper doll
inside she screams and screams
inside the tears are an ocean of death
but to the mute world
her stone gaze fixed out the window
that in her mind is forever as shattered as her
to a world that to her is forever winterbound as her cold heart
she walks into the depths of her home
neatly pressed in her grey dress
line perfect down to makeup
but there is a steady whisper of terror leaking out of her lips
darkness has many faces
hides in plain sight
in full on sunlight
has too many names to be recalled
its lusted for and held up in praise
but it is no hero to me
she is just one average face
just one average set of fingers
looking for a trigger
looking for a thing to bury herself and blade in
and regardless of what they say
she is my only hope
i cannot be the one to bear this burden anymore
i cannot carry this awful memory any further
i want to be rid of her and her kind once and for all
she stands in her silent dark bedroom
razor in her cold fingers
thin smile on her thin lips
but im never coming back
i will never open that door
never free her of this hell she created
if it was anybody else i might feel
anyone else it might matter
let her rot
I missed you before we ever met
And dread the parting words
You were the pawn shop for my trinkets and baggage
Assigning palpable worth to the unimportant history
One man’s trash and tragedy
Is another man’s happiness attained
I traded my pain for gold
You’re the best story I ever told
full of ceramic trinkets
suspended in 1950
to last through