"I think ***** may be a tragic hero,"
A student said,
"Linda tells her boys he is an average man,
And it's time for average men to be attended.
That he gets up and goes to work each day
Is enough to make him a hero."

We listen in the darkened room,
Breaking to think our thoughts aloud
Before we dive back into the pool
Of Loman miseries:
The braggart wearing down,
The cringing rage against
The darning of socks,
Silken stocking memories,
Naughtiness recapitulated.

And sons spinning round
The vortex edge,
Wondering whether
To bail or pledge....

The stage is growing dark,
The audience darker,
Receding from bright memories,
Nobility's idyllic days denied,
Nothing left but the emptiness of pride.

Accepting brassiness and braggadocio,
We lean, breathless beneath skyscrapers,
Accepting commission-only pay,
The emptiness of false news,
And mediocre heroes.

"Boys! The woods are burning!
Can't you understand?
There's a big blaze going all around!"
But no one understands.

We are all dreamers,
Hoping America makes us great again,
Wishing to live the Salesman's life,
Willing to leave Plan B hidden
Behind the fusebox for now...
If only hope remains,
If only champagne wishes,
Caviar dreams besot us in our schemes.

"Nobody dast blame this man!"
Says Charlie, and he is right.
It's tough being out there
Living on a wing and a prayer,
Promising the moon,
Promised the moon,
Age coming on,
No seeds planted,
No sun to shine
On what's left
Of the garden....

A little salary,
A smile,
A shoeshine,
Cannot suffice.

Believing dreams that lie
Is no reason to live;
Seeing the blue sky alone
Is no reason,
If there's nothing to own,
And no place to call home.

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

Died from a heart break was her story.
Her smile so bright, cheeks dusty red. Looking on the beauty who has it all, who I'd rather be instead.

Brunette of great abundance...she had it all.
When she entered the room there would be utter silence, everyone wanted to be her...**** I locked eyes with her and I was in an aue. Crazy but I envision rosey petals scattered in her bed.

Janise, that Janise... Golden heart, cold hands and a heart beat that beats in tune. The one every man would love to wed. I never understood why she was always so happy.

I remember I once overheard her sopping, I didn't know what happened. But that full moon night when all colleagues broke away, drinking and laughing... Dazed, we heard she turned a gun to her head.

She left a note: "I'm sorry. I wish I could be perfect for you, I understand it could never be...I must say, I wasn't prepared to live without you, so I went and dug my grave"

Love, Janise*


S.B

By Arcassin Burnham  

I search to find the truth in
you and all these places,
But the information turns purple
and loses its breath Each time,
Can't put the stress on my body
enough to see all these Faces,
But the circumstances are falling
out of silver colored skies,
Limit all of your chances,
Time to make some changes,
You've spent your whole life in
a house where people Don't get the message,
Why the long face,
why the sense of unenlightened feelings,
Like a punch in the face each time
I make mistakes,
For that....
the information has died.

The Madness of blended reality, is confidently marching through my mind.
I could not resist the sweet sound of this haunting Muse.
She sang her dismal songs, which shook me something fierce.
Astounding words which resonate feelings I've never mustered.

Now comes the crazy, the loud bellowing of endless chords.
I'm running, clasping my ears ever so tightly, to no avail
The chantey is banging in the walls of sanity, louder and louder.
Tossing and turning, wide eyed and insane, her song goes on.

Even in my dreams, which have become their own nightmares, sing.
I cannot escape this tune, marching to the gates of some type of truth.
What am I missing, and shall silence elude me in my descent of ill will.
I roll back my eyes, to see the darkness play with such fever.

Hopeless, I give in, I let it play, over and over and over again.
I allow this cursed song to grace this shameful and unforgivable self.
For a moment, I try to believe it will end, knowing full well, its a lie.
Now, repeating with ominous terror, she sings louder, I began to crack.

I like you in the morning,
your eyelids still heavy with the innocence
Of sleep
The sunrise still soft on our skin s

I like you at noon, in the heat of day
Pronouncing German, invoking laughter.
What I would give to stand with you,
The sun warm on our faces, our hearts
In some lost and faraway place
If only to quench our Siamese wanderlust

I like you in the evening,
Your strong arms around me
Watching HGTV;
Or when you play me sweet melodies,
(that violoncello will steal my heart)

And yet,

I like you best at night
when you dream aloud-
Hands searching-
Breath quickening-
Skin touching-
Words failing-
One becoming-

You are most wonderful at your most vulnerable,
Most pure

Let’s discover the world together-
Tomorrow?