The white walls smell like sick
the clean kind of  sick and
I don't want to be here.
"We are going to see him now"
"Alright" scrunching up my face
The elevator dinged, I pulled my sleeves
down over my hands
"They can't come in"
"Why?"
"They must be 16"
"But they might ever see him again"
"Thats the policy"
I pulled up my hood and walked away
Shrugged away their goodbyes
"Come on lets go"
"Alright" I took her hand
and we left to wait in the overly plush waiting room,
watching a TV with nothing on,
and looking out a picture window
at the concrete roof of the building below.

It was warm all week,
every day was sunny except today.
Clouds rolled in and dropped
soaking burnt hair
so it shrunk and curled.
That was the day she
leaned over and told me
"I can't believe this happened
I couldn't help myself"
"I know" I assured her
I must be in control of my emotions now
"you need to tell someone"
"no I can't"
"you must"
We walked out of class that day
hand and hand, and I wasn't sure
how to assure her I would never leave.
So I just smiled and hugged her.
We stood there,
while the rain washed away
our make-up and hair.
That was the first day,
we bathed in blood.

No face.
Going through space
as if there is no time,
a race.
Farthest it goes is the book
put in its place.
A pace.
Looking forward
and marking each lace
on his shoe
as if he has no taste.
Full case.
The guard is standing with a mace.
The ballerina has no grace.
It's betrayed by her face.

In those days
The crows called every day
At noon they sang

The weather was
Non-descript, no rain
And the sun never shone

People walked down streets
That lacked direction and
Purpose

Those where darker days

The days I sat in my apartment
Writing down meaningless
words for hours

And tried to ignore the
Dove that made its nest in the gutter
Outside my window

Where my cat lay
In my lap, untouched
Yet still purring

And where my pen
rolled out the window
Onto the passing heads
of the street below.

The battle has been won
The struggle is over
It's time to go home now

The flag has been flown
The river crusaded
And the grass overturned

The enemy has won
The real enemy has lost
And all of us are gone now

But bring this near
And remember me here
When you feel that all is lost

So, come as we close
Bring what has been tossed
Bring what you have forgotten

Put them down here
You will never see them again
Bring her up there
And you will see her soon.

Summer nights are pushed in
with cold breezes and robins wings.
At night the sun never truly fades,
a yellow phosphorescence lingers
kin to the sticky heat and light bugs.
It hangs in the air, light caught on nothing
like dew caught in a web.
The mosquitoes wings twist the air
into a dour chorus
like a poorly tuned violin quartet.

And sweat sticks to the brow.
And to the sheets.
And to the thin shirt that twists around beneath tight covers.
The eyes that no longer reflect blue
only the slow blink of the fireflies.
Crickets sing the ears to sleep,
and if the ear is trained,
or looking for something to hear,
it might catch the very light buffets
of the frenzied flutter of bats.
The moon hazed from the days heat
hangs low making the sky like the inside
of an immense pin hole camera.
Promising an interesting and bright world on the other side.

Bells clang with dissonant fury,
they rattle the cracked foundation
upon which the church sits.
Thirteen lamp oil birds take lift
and scatter. The cacophony acting
as hands, throwing feathers and
feces out of the old tower.
The judges house leans a little more
to the left now, as it always
seems to at noontime.
The owner of the pub knocks
his sign back into place with his
knobbled cane.
The rocking chair tilts a bit further
back as the old lady finishes
her last stitch.
The children exit the schoolhouse.
None of them notice the blood,
or how the preacher slumps against
his chair, face pressed to the pages
of revelation.