Dawn rose
Her golden hair lighting the sky
And she caressed the Earth
In her fiery finger tips
Painting color onto every
Tree and flower
Whose color had been bleached
By the Moon

All the glassy-eyed marionette puppets
Were brought back to life
Dancing in the light
Their eyes shone
From their mistress’ warm glow

The puppets kneeled before
The rising sun
Smiling and full of joy
A feeling so different
Than the cold fear the Moon brought

The Darkness

That was when Twilight, the setting sun
Dropped her marionettes
Left them strewn about carelessly
And the shimmering Moon came out of hiding

The Moon Lady smiled down sadly
At the lifeless figures
Littering the Earth
But she didn’t say anything
No
Instead she blew soft kisses
Into the unforgiving black space
Where they twinkled like diamonds

And she shed tears,
Which landed on the puppet’s faces
And clung to their eyelashes
Like silvery dew

Ah, but the marionettes didn’t appreciate
The twinkling lights in the sky
Nor the beautiful tears shed in sympathy for them

They just waited for Dawn to return
With her golden hair
And glowing finger tips

I.

A twitch,
a slight itch on my arm.
Colors blur-
a child's scribbles
outside of the lines.

A burning heat in my pocket-
a needle to inject
that chemical freedom.

Sweaty palms
and a serpent whispering
into my ear.

Throw it away.
Light it up, friend,
Four days
it’s been far too long.
sober.

Escape!  Just let go.


II.

Wonderful, wonderful, I am nature!
I am designated to be brave!
To grow tall!
And you will never comprehend me.

I am a cure for history!
I’m an inspiration!
A beautiful scene!
All dreams and no panic.
I’m all rock and roll and cool waves.

I am a revolution!
¡VIVA LA REVOLUCIÓN!
I am a trend you were so afraid to bring back.
Everyone was wrong!

I will not be changed,
and I will go out with a bang…

III.

A bed,
shivering and white.
Lights.
Bright, sterile lights
flickering softly like trapped fireflies in a mason jar.

The faith chirp
of machines.
A flatline drones, dark and red.
I’m bound by tubes and cuffs and –

Oh God.

How many kids have died in this hospital bed?

In 1558 Pieter Brueghel painted
Icarus falling to the blue and green water
in a darkened corner, out of sight

He crashed close to shore
between a fisherman busy reviewing his catch
and a great ship with its sails being pulled
farther and farther into the sea

He sank and drowned quietly
while the whole world carried on
unbothered by death and tragedy
tending to their plows and herds

They’ll come back tomorrow
to plow their fields and steer their herds
with the same thoughts, an endless loop
even when a boy falls from the sky

And like my house falling to pieces
of white rubble and shattered glass
The screams are kept between the walls,
but the windows are paintings
of young boys falling to the floor
silently, unnoticed by the world