I walked a trail
through darkened woods,
climbing ever higher.
I met a man on a bend,
eating his own feet.
I asked in horror,
"Why, my Brother, why!?"
He replied through bloodied lips,
"I'm tired of the trails I leave behind."
I wept,
but plodded on,
leaving him to his fate
and memories
and slowly ran from mine.

A discussion in a bar,
smokey, dimly lit...
one man turns to another,
and asks, "Tell me a unique experience, would you?
The other sits quietly,
stares at the mirror,
and softly says, "I murdered 5 people once."
The silence is thick as mud,
and he adds "It was the right thing to do, or seemed so at the time.
The funny thing is... nothing else ever mattered,
as much as it should have
later on".
The room grew quieter
and drew closer in.
Nobody asked anything again
the bartender poured drinks all around.

It hangs on the wall, in its place, solid, unremarkable. Outside, the seasons change, the Sun rises and sets, time passes. The cupboard is full now, and has been for many years, a place to put things and close the doors, hiding them away from casual guests and inquiries, one in a row of solid boxes mounted to the wall, doors are straight, hinges oiled, it hangs true where ceilings meet walls, and walls meet floors, and floors absorb the many steps of those within. And I, I spend my days filling the cupboard with past lives and past Life, and no one looks within but me. Its shelves are full now, but rearranged at times, the faces to the back for now, the names placed in the front for easy reaching, times and dates to the side, all within reach and sight for when I need to look and remember, safe behind the oaken doors I’ve closed. A rare day indeed, of late, do I open it, washing away the dust of years, taking notes and inventory, each item in its place, filed in memories and dreams, then closed again. A half empty glass sits on the counter below, the setting sun throwing thin beams of light through the window, the cupboard now in evening shadows, waits… and stays solidly quiet in the darkening room, content with its place and its purpose. Quietly, night falls, birds hush, stars gleam dimly in a darkened sky, and within, ceilings meet walls, walls meet floors, and floors wait for quiet steps and the cupboard still hangs true and straight, a place for a sleepless hand to open its doors and place a dream within. It waits… unremarkable… solid…it waits.
                                                                                                JC 2005

How was I supposed to know,
that killing would come so hard,
and last so long,
and do what it did to my soul?
Why was the part of living death,
the thing that hangs on deep
clawing it's way into our hearts,
left out of the preparations of war?
How was I to know the cost,
of pulling a trigger,
or wielding a knife,
not to the person killed,
but to me?
Nobody told me ever,
not even once,
or hinted,
at the destruction to self of war.
How was I to know?
I was young,
and a boy,
and dependent on them,
on the soldiers who taught me how.
I set my traps,
I was taught.
I moved like a cat,
I was taught.
I could live in the wild,
I was taught.
I could best them all,
no matter the game,
I was taught.
Nobody taught me to live,
afterwards,
or to forget,
afterwards,
or to feel again,
afterwards.
How was I to know?
They never told me those things.

In my dreams I see,
the starlight in your eyes,
leading me from the darkened rooms
I’ve placed my life in all these years,
content with the lack of sight and sound,
of warmth and tender touch.
Your smile beckons, your hand outstretched,
with promises of warmth and silken skin.
Soft kisses and softer whispers meant for me,
And me alone, light amongst the shadows.
I wake to an idea that you exist,
somewhere real and just for me.
I earned, I earned the right to have you,
long ago when all the child left me
and I made you in my sleep,
a sleep I might not wake from.
I smelled the perfume in your hair,
as it spilled across my face in the dark,
while listening to the distant thunder,
raining death and fire in the mountains beyond.
And you led me away to quiet places to heal, to rest,
I knew you then, before we met and touched,
and so many years to find you in between,
a waste of precious time and peace,
of years spent seeing shadows.
How many mornings came too soon,
and helped you drift away once more,
into the dreams that made you?
Stay this time, and lie still in the night,
keeping the bitter cold at bay.
Hold me softly in your arms and say,
“I love you, and always will”.

A song plays,
inside my head,
with words for me,
and me alone,
and sings of the dead.
Echoes and whispers,
a shadows voice,
singing lullabies and children’s songs,
but sung for ghosts,
of ghosts,
and reflections in the mirror.
The music plays in the place I live,
and keeps me from the used to be’s,
no longer hearing calls to return
from those that love me.
Those doors are closed
and all the songs are mine,
and mine alone.
Under the blankets
in a bed I never leave,
words are sung,
and nobody hears but me.
I drift in the space of the words,
and the music played along,
to wonder,
"Am I dead too"?
But the songs play with no answers,
to a question from another time,
an existential answer to
"I am"?
"I hear, therefore.....
what"?
Songs play,
and sing of the dead.

A Snow in Summer.
                                
                                               Like snow that follows Spring,
                                               When flowers start to rise,
                                               It’s wrong for certain things to be,
                                               Like when a child dies.

                                               A Moon that shines on sunlit days,
                                               a cold and damning light,
                                               as wrong as youth that fades and leaves,
                                               forever from our sight.
            
                                               A warming wind in wintertime,
                                               while in a swirling storm,
                                               is not to be the way of things                               
                                               nor death in youthful form.
                                                           ­ 
                                                One left to mourn a missing friend,
                                                one left of what was three,
                                                Again it’s like a summer’s snow.
                                                It’s not supposed to be.
                                                                ­                        JC 2004