the same, again, again

I am in the bunker
the wire is crawling with them
like so many black clad snakes
spewing venom at my brothers and at me
and I am out of ammo, my M16 magazines
empty, caked with mud

everyone is looking to me
for salvation, for a salvo of rounds
at the VC, and I find a twenty two
Ruger pistol, the same one I used
to **** a buzzard for sport, one
sinful desert day; and now I aim
at the enemy, firing over
and over, hitting them
dead center, but they
keep coming

I never run out of rounds
but the impotence of my fire
burns inside me--I reach for my empty M16,
but it's still empty--they keep coming

even when I wake, even when
the morning sun has blotted out
the black dream

they keep coming
I keep reaching, reaching
for the empty gun

a thousand miles we traveled to see
your jack-hammered giants--we arrived at dusk
just as the torrents began, bathing your
chiseled countenances

we hid in our chariot of modernity
wipers flapping in syncopated time, Bluetooth belching
out words from kin, "have a good time,"
"sorry for the storm..."  

but I wasn't, for lightning struck
a blackjack pine, and four mammoth men
came to life, their sheen now electric, their long
mute voices once again a resounding roar

anonymous winds
bend tall Timothy grasses,
wake rabbits napping
in the brush

they ripple the surface
of the stock tanks, tickle the haunches
of the beasts who wade there
to slurp the tepid waters

they birth red dust devils
for my eyes to follow, as they scud
through mesquite, and hopscotch over canyons
older than time

one day, soon, they will blow
over a shallow earth bed; I will not hear
their sibilant song, but my sleep will be deep,
unperturbed by their mystic music

there are dead days
that seem to have lost their meaning
while forcing the world
to work around them.

there are dead days
no one seems to notice
but are always begging for attention
and everyone pretend to ignore.

there are dead days
that soak up the sun
so that the only things still living
seem to be the shadows.

there are dead days
that everyone can see
and can only decide to take pity
when they lose their life.

there are dead days
that take the whole universe with them
so that nothing can see
and everything goes deaf.

there are dead days
that wish so much to just be alive
that they take everything for themselves
just to feel less empty

but the days that are alive

they sing with the voices of angels
they burn bright with laughter of all
they carry weights to unimaginable heights
they stay among the clouds for as long as they can
they shine with love of the world
they work with ambitious vigor
they never give in to the hardships

the days that are alive
may never appreciate what they  are
but give solace to the hearts
that need them the most.

to me summer is the greatest season of all
my second favorite, well that would be fall

summer is dandelion fluff and shirts with no sleeves
fall is pumpkin pie and tumbling leaves

At my door, he stands.
At my bed, he lands.
At my soul, he stabs.
At my heart, he grabs.

My last breath, he laughs.