I was working the suicide hotline
that Friday night her call came in.
She sounded hyped up, frantic,
toying with the ultimate sin.

Her boyfriend had just left her
and she had no cash for the rent.
In the background a baby was crying,
The last of her patience long spent.

She rambled about her existence
as I passed a note to an aide.
When she told me how much she had taken
It was the first time in years that I prayed.

Blue angels with sirens were coming
for the girl with the tracks on her arms.
She increasingly grew incoherent,
Then, silence, I knew she was gone.

That weekend, I read in the paper
How an “Accident” claimed her young life.
A pretty brunette, about twenty,
all done with life’s struggle and strife.


That Tuesday, I stood in the distance
as the hearse brought that girl to her grave.
I wept then, overcome with sorrow,
for the young life that I failed to save.
.

butterflies on a beautiful boy
cling with insect intensity
they wear candy pink lipstick
he has his face reddened
with blusher
his hair is depicted in triplicate
on the cubical doors of toilets
black painted cubical doors
that possess an objective scrutiny
of an immediacy that suggests
a knowledge of expendable names
of disinterested inspection
names that are deletable with time
all that is left is a screaming solar plexus
he waits like an animated aura
a haloed head of violet rings him
as he leans against the toilet wall
with beautiful blonde ambition
the butterflies cling with insect intensity

A screen was there
as high as me
and as broad.

And there he was
in front  of the screen,
lying in his rags.
His shirt must have been green,
when it used to cover his frailty.

His trousers were torn,
and hair wiry.
If it hadn’t been his placid sleep
and a black scar on his cheek,
he would be lost in generality.

But he was different.
He was a warrior,
who had just won over a city.
His armour impaired, body battered
to the extreme.

He must have been a kinsman
of the king.
As he wore the royal green
and carried a slender physique.
The dark stains on his lower
explained how he slaughtered the militaries
with his cavalry.
And yes, the scar.
The black scar outlined the final battles
with the mighty,
and long journey from the murky and dusty
land of atrocities.

Anyone with even a
slight fondness to fantasy
could ponder
into the warrior’s dreamless dreams
on the screen, that was
as high as me
and as broad.