I remember well
The creaking of
One hundred year old
Pine planked floor
And the ticking
Of the 100 year old clock
In my family's old home
Before the highwaymen
Took it with the widening
Of Highway 91
But Mom got her new house
Set back just a little
She loves it and new amenities
At least they didn't steal the barn
But I miss the creaking and the ticking
Of my childhood home
On Highway 91
Across from Stoney Creek
My real home
mI miss you, I say,
Like a 100 year old fire,
Misses the touch of rain.
And how the bold young,
Miss what they don't yet,
And then the dying old,
Misses being younger.
And the silent wanderer,
Miss what is not home,
And the sheltered folk,
Misses all the freedom.
And new celebrity crushes,
Miss a very lonely life,
And the one hit wonder,
Misses stars at night.
And the mused poet,
Miss the days unmused
And the writers block,
Misses all the words.
And sharpened blades,
Miss the feel of rough.
And a wedding ring,
Misses being worn.
(Even if it was in spite
Even if it was in scorn
I still miss our poison
I still miss my love)
My heads underwater,
in a sea of salty tears.
Wash down stained cheeks;
are heavy to push them away.
try to breathe easy..
Stomach tightens in crying cramps,
begging for an escape
to feel something good.
Dark ringed eyes tell more stories
than a 100 year old tree.
Try to breathe easy..
I grab a pen
I grab some paper
and I write
I write words to calm the soul
write write write write
smoothing scribbling sounds
tears only exchange hellos
on intervals now.
it's raining today
bouncing off the roof and glass
of this 100 year old building
the room is eerily dark
as only faint Sun makes it through the skylight
the ghosts whisper and shuffle about
the cat is timid and disappears under the bed
the hum of early traffic is constant and tires splashing
through rain is irritating
I recall a dream just before I awoke
I helped a friend who's old white Cadillac wouldn't start
she had to drive to Michigan
and in the dream I thought;
'this piece of shit ain't makin' it to Michigan'
but I couldn't stop her
and now I wonder;
is she broke down and in a panic along I-80?
maybe I should have tried harder
but that's where I woke up
or is that where I fell asleep?
perhaps I am dreaming now
the ghosts love to watch me ponder
I find comfort in the news
Be it typhoons or drones
I feel like a 100 year old Camus
For he was a miserable little raccoon
Or should I say Morrissey?
But the bipolar king is lost at sea!
I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven
Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin?
I will mention roses in a second
But first, wear your veil
May I eat your cheeks?
I’m your psychopath with style
We bathed in herbs together
The pale breasts that shone
A reoccurring dream of two moons
I believe in reincarnation
bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl
Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music
Few clichés, I forgot about your roses
One day I’ll strike the balance
between rhymes and passion
she exists now in a dream state
unaware of the horror and the passage of time
wind rushes through broken panes
floors creak and door hinges speak
announcing her presence
this was her house
once a place of light and love
full of family and friends
cotillions resonating with music and dance
and lively conversation
a grand kitchen to prepare the feasts
of pheasant under glass
a gazebo for laughing in the rain
arbors for moonlit meetings with owls
a pond for lilies and croaking frogs
gardens for picking her favorite peonies
a nursery for her children
all this now nothing but ruins
from happiness to a home for bugs and bats
crawling with silverfish, centipedes and black widows
shrouded in cobwebs
drowning in dust
suffocating in stench of rotting wood and desolation
decorated with 100 year old bloodstains
she never saw her killer
never saw the spurting of her arteries
never heard her children’s screams and death rales
she sees her house as it was
and every night she roams the rooms
calling her children’s names in long, haunting whispers
my hands shake like they always do
and my breaths shake like a 100 year old house in a hurricane
my heart beats to a stuttering drum
and my voice cracks like a preteen
i am alive, that's enough
somewhere a violin groans
and it tears my heart in two
my head is nothing but thoughts
and my thoughts are nothing but dreams
and my dreams are nothing but whispers
whispers of something
something i haven't dreamed of in a long while,
someone i haven't let into my life yet
or someone i have
i haven't decided yet
someone who isn't here now
i am alone, alone but not really
alone in the sense of without you alone
alone in the sense where it matters
alone in the way where my muscles tense
and my voice quivers
and i have no one to hold
i don't know if i want someone to hold
or someone to hold me
or someone to be there
or to be alone, alone with my thoughts for a long while more