'tween the sandy dunes of words
And the sparkling dark foams of ink
I riot as a snake would do
With his forked tongue
Among the
Unlettered stones of a sunny
Graveyard.

© LazharBouazzi, rev. 3/3/2018

she sets the suitcase on the floor
after a weekend together
to explore
as I shut the door
she turned to me and said
I want a divorce
my mouth hit the floor
all I could say was, of course
thinking good lord
she unpacked
setting the suitcase back on the floor
and tells me to pack
says you can leave the key at the door
without any slack
I turn my back
take the suitcase and pack
and head for the door
knowing deep inside the relationship
could not be restored
I get to a hotel
I open the door
I set the suitcase on the floor
thinking good lord
I unpack
then return the suitcase
I knock on the door
It opens
I set the suitcase inside on the floor
I look at her
this is yours
I cannot look at it setting on the floor
forevermore

She calls on the cardinal in winter.
All that remains of reverence for a god who has gone--
And he appears to her!
A lone spark lighting the static of snowscape
Like a bolt of lightning traverses dimensions to strike a dream.
He delivers lost loved ones as she washes the dishes.
Ascension of memory is as steam on glass.
The child raises a finger and draws the sign of the cross,
And through the clarity of its lines, she sees the river change its mind,
Stop short,
Swirl in Inertia’s moment of uncertainty
Before scrambling frantically back toward its
Source.
She washes the dishes,
And watches through window of steam and snow for a sign from God.

I've lain on this horrid couch for days,
vintage in hand
ever staring
at this hideous popcorn ceiling.
A cheap white, low lying coffin lid.
You can never rehabilitate the dead
We are dead.
Yet, more alive than any of the sane people.
How I pity the sane.
Boring.
****** to a life of hell they are.
In these popcorn ceiling caskets.
And routine,
is hell~A

The setting of traps
has always seemed
like a tacit endorsement
of the mice.

Acknowledgement.
Validation.
Admission of failings as a homeowner –
(cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.)

We are usually responsible
for our own infestations, after all.

The relationship with the mice is codified
“you are vermin,
I am not.
I will ****.
You will die.”

Thus the mice are transfigured,
Christ-like.
Frozen in fear,
frozen in time,
laid bare
on a sticky, chemical
altar of sacrifice.

Saviors
giving their lives
so that we may preserve
those unwanted crumbs
in the vacant space
between the couch and loveseat
where the vacuum won’t reach.