—For Tom Surdam

Town's quiet—
aside from the timid
waltz of a porch-swing
wind chime and the backyard cricket
kingdoms. I passed the funeral
apartments, the static cat,
and the bar stool where my uncle
wore his soul sore on steel strings
in a wooden shot glass.
He was a good man, a cigarette
saint with a pacemaker scab. A tavern
sweetheart with a memory made
of drink chips and Marlboro foil.

I saw an asphalt toad on the bridge
bathing in the ghost glint of the only
stop light in town beside another
that was smeared like house paint
just inches from the storm drain,
from home.

I know not if I have ever seen
a night so still as this.
Clouds rolling on a starry sea;
A beautiful eclipse.

But lo, another light appears
now I am on the run.
The man whose gold I stole is near
he brandishes a gun.

A dark alley, a scurried fall
Slowed by the sack I bore;
he caught me trapped against a wall,
and the night was still no more.

I want to know of the pain that screams from the inner depth of what you call a soul.

Black and tangent, the painfully mundane, selfishly masochistic… This nature, you hold.


Now I am asking not as a friend who picks you up and fills your head with mindless affirmations,

But as a teacher who guides you through tragedy, hear me!

See it is somewhat of a skill of mine to lend hands to the hopelessly hopeless.


An animal in the corner that bites when you get too close!
We are desperately thin with skin not so tough.
Our hearts are racing and we'll never know what to make of it,
When the loss is so great and pure with potency.
Certainty bares a concrete I am not ready to cement together.


See I am not a friend but a teacher who guides you through calamity, hear me!

Lash at me as you may, I will forgive you every single time.

See I have been you in my past selves and I exercise no superiority when I say… I understand you, I was you.


The questions we ask ourselves are all dreadful in contempt,

We do not know where to place blame so we self inflict.

Our hearts are far too heavy and our passions are burning out quick!


We always say things we don’t mean and accepting this as our human condition was an awful task, I do admit.
But here I am again not a friend in the moments that matter the most but a teacher of cold nature presenting how to grow through such despairs.


I’ll walk through your personal hell and feel as you feel,

I will do all of this asking nothing in return.

For you are a rose with thorns I allow to sliver into my paper like skin.

Aged far too young but I stand infinite!

I often think theirs not a tragedy that makes me of a resenting stance,

Hostilities measured and I don't want any part of it!


See as dying is an art , so is living I now see to full fruition and if you’re bright you will take sail upon the majesty of the bigger picture that guides you into the world of possibilities.

The sacrifice that must be made to open the eyes of those not yet paying attention is far too grave of a price to pay,
I now repent...


See living is an act and we all must participate,

But I bare words far too heavy for the likes of the dull mind.

So proceed with caution-

And when I have my way with you, you will no longer be the same just as I was mutilated and forsaken by deaths untimely swing!

...

The days will come off more radiant I swear, just give it time, be patient my student.

Your undying appreciation for the lives we live will flood your veins for the rest of your days to come,

And the love for this life will blossom once again, from the most hopeless of places,
Though doubtful in the perceptions of present, you will smile once again, this I promise.

You will be like a Phoenix rising from your ashes of perpetual sorrows, so grand and magnificent!

But as for I, I believe in equal exchange.

I will drain your wounds and allow them to become my very own...

'

Belying this despised state 

you hunch upon shuffling feet, 

pondering the crunch of browned leaves. 



Burrowing this dusty soil 

you hide beneath scurrying paws, 

forgetting the crash of billowy waves. 



Blowing out raspy breath 

you pucker withered lips; 

release cotton-downed doves. 



Bellowing against the horizon 

you herd the flock from grazing; 

shackled gates embrace nightfall. 





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