The sun glares through a cloud's crevice like a ******* god with an angry eye.
It ignites the road I've been traveling on, daring me to follow the curving asphalt.
As the truck rolls down the hill, the sun glowers and growls, pulsing heat, desperate to punish me.
But by the time the front wheels taste the hill's end, I spot a dirt road hidden by the half-naked trees.
I turn the wheel stained with motor oil and appreciate the absence of the sun.
I've scoured through my poetry on this site and can't seem to find this poem I wrote awhile back. So here it is.
Forgive me, if it is indeed a repost.
The summer air has given way
to something colder and empty.
Some nights under the streetlamp
I see ghosts. They run from me.
Entering the sala, I'm greeted by a flaking leather couch. I rest my head on it's arm. Been told to replace the eyesore. To leave it for the landfill. The thought picked at me, but one night, when resting upon its form I heard its frame rattle. I remembered that the car rattles. The washer machine rattles. This apartment rattles. But, my pockets do not rattle. So I lied there staring out the window.
I may not be as coherent
As the rest may be
But I may know my limits
When I had a few in me.
The few is actually many
But that's secret between
Who I am and who I want to be seen.
That for the feedback love
Spreading its form across the glass, the rain offers itself to the windshield. How devoted must it be to be pressed by wind and left on the altar by its higher power. I've often wondered what rain thinks when the car slows when the trees no longer blend with blue hills. When the car comes to a complete stop. When the rain must grapple with gravity.
I've ate tissue that's reserved for vultures.
The price: a convulsing stomach, gagging,
attempting to regurgitate what is forbidden.
But I've sewn my mouth closed.
I'm meant to die. To die is human.
I remind myself of this on days I want
to snip the string to revive myself.
Mother speaks to me in her native tongue.
I attempt a response; the syllables
on the way to her, trip over themselves.
They reach out for something to hold on to.
There is only air. They hit the tiles
with such weight, that I'm sure my family
in Guatemala grasped their Mayan hearts,
looked to the north with anguish in their eyes.
How often do you find yourself examining the ends of your sentences?
Do you stress over the stresses or lack thereof? the missing punctuation or the exaggerations?
I find myself staring at the page
wondering what I could have been
doing instead of this wondering.
I'm an archaeologist of my past,
digging in holes I once abandoned.
Curving my palms around their base,
I hold brittle bones, pressing only
slightly to prove their authenticity.
I know I mustn't prove their existence.
I am their existence. But, my existence
is questioned, examined under lamp
light late into the night with the rain
pelting the windows and thunder clashing.
I've seen you around.
Where. I'm not sure.
Maybe at the event
Last week. Maybe.
Or maybe we had
Met a season ago.
In the inbetweens
Of pine and oak,
Far from fear.
Your hair seems
To be same color.
Your stature, the
Same. Your hands,
Correct feel. Maybe,
I'm mistaken. Maybe,
I'm imagining it
Like most poets do.
Their eyes avert
in the direction
of somewhere off
to the side. I hand
them their change.
The left arm tenses
as the right hand
clutches. There is
strain. They want
to scratch. The scabs.
The dryness. Anything
to keep their mind
off their coming off.
They grab hold of the
a "thank you", leaving
in haste. They've
wasted to much time
in line without a line.
Or perhaps their habit
is a collection of spoons
scattered around their
living room carpet.
A montage of failed dreams
and longing. They jump
into the car and drive off,
leaving behind a trail of smoke.
I know it's wrong of us,
Touching the round edges
Of our bodies while the bells
Toll, commencing holyness.
But, aren't we holy as well?
Aren't lips that scour empty
Dark rooms for others holy?
Isn't skin holy in its own right?
The way it reflects desire ?
The way it taste of something
You can only describe as sanctuary?
Time has to remain a construct
Never dire. Never two minutes
Till supper. Nor a quarter past.
If it's tangible, even in the mind,
I can fold it into my suitcase,
Take it with me as I travel.
Perhaps to Spain. Perhaps
Around the block. Perhaps
If I have time, it can't ever have me.
Traveling up 77
With the radio
On static, I'm
By the familar
Vast blue haze.
That's what I see.
Or I like to believe
But as I fiddle with
The dial I can only
Welcome the all too
Familar white noise.
Someone out there is whispering
And their whispering digs deep
Through the thick frosted air.
A car tears through asphalt
I can't unhear the elongated scream.
When my heart gave out,
there were no cries to the moon.
All I could hear were cars
cruising on by. Their growls
became whispers became none.
My heart slowed in pace and I
saw no light. Just the sharp glow
from the TV. It jabbed at my chest.
Jabbed at my face. I bled inside.
I've heard them
They rot in the field
Of concrete just down
The street. Mama
Said when alive
It use to swallow many
But now the many are left
Alone. They never wanted to be alone.
The night isn't
made for monsters;
it's made for those
hashing down four
cups of coffee.
It's made for those
sitting on the edge
of the bed, counting
mistakes they've made,
finding reprieve in moonlight.
Those who open the fridge
to scour and devour-its
made for them too.
But, the night isn't made for
monsters. Never has been.
I've been told to write
a poem a day
As if the old muse
can risen from it's slumber without quarrel.
I've attempted to
But each try fail short,
Leaving me with ink in pen
But no words on page.
I find it easier to let the muse
Sleep. Their deep breathing mimics
The rising and falling of mountains
Soon enough the pebbles and stones
Will collect into something tangible.
Mama made a living washing other people's floors
She took what little pay 'fore she walked out the door.
She'll come home a'crying
"Oh Lord what am I to do?
My kids got to have a new pair of shoes."
Daddy made a living working factory
Hauling 12 hours barley gettin sleep
He'll come a'cussing
"Oh Lord what am I to do?
My kids got to eat and got to get to school"
They never saw eye to eye
That's why they lived apart
But their children came first
In their minds and in their hearts.
But we wasn't the only ones
Who had to live this way
Us kids would talk
When we would play
It seemed plain to us
It wasn't our own volition
We was just following an
Old American tradition.
Mama made a living washing other people's floors.
She took what little pay 'fore she walked out the door.
Daddy worked factory
Just to make ends meet
They never saw eye to eye
But they made sure we'd had to eat.
Mama done said to me
To make decent grades
But grades don't mean athing
When I got to keep a place to stay.
Daddy just nods his head
Attempting not to sleep
"You're Mama's right" he says,
"But schooling don't come cheap".
So I'm stuck here wondering
What's the best course of action
Cause from the looks of it
I'm stuck in this old American Tradition.
I've held back words
Placed them inside jars
On the counter top,
Hoping that one day I could
Save enough to form a sentence
Or at least a fragment.
I've held onto the notion
of simplicity, reducing
the breaths I would give.
My lungs made up the
difference with black space
and echoed vibrations.
palm. But, I risk
death and swallow
I've tasted the singed flesh
Of a moment forgotten.
The meat was tough.
The flavor stagnat.
I tried to wash the residue
With a glass of water, but
It lingered. I choked on it.
The waiter watched as my
His frame hunches
over by the weight
of years.The bones
wince. They long to
retire. They call out
for a time buried in
a lot somewhere in the
wood. He ignores the bones.
There are pains
in these bones.
They stifle life
from taking root.
I open my mouth.
Only a black hole
with rotten flesh,
swelling with decay
greets the world.
There was time when I would have asked you to leave. The weight of goodbye leaves a gouge in memories, so I would have chose to not hear it. You've looked back with somber in your eyes, grappling with the thought of leaving, but, as you lay gazing at the TV, I see happiness. Moments shared flash before my eyes.
I'm afraid that I've broken my teeth
On the smooth surface of hard candy.
A piece gave way, before taking white,
Replacing it with cold gums and self.
I've asked for a reprevie of sorts yet
I was denied. The dentist said it would
Be a pointless attempt to save one when
All is condemned. Who is this God that forces decay? Have I not paid my dues.
He jolted awake from his slumber.
Jabbed at the bed for the warmth of my hand.
“It burns. It burns.” He thundered.
As he presses against bone, I pondered
How much can he withstand?
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” He mutters.
He couldn’t ease back to his slumber.
His eyes open wounds I couldn’t heal and
I was left to wonder.
Would the one who sundered
his flesh, left marks with branding
be punished. “It’s fine. It’s fine” he murmurs.
He attempted to go back to his slumber,
But snared by unconsciousness is how it began.
“you’re fine. You’re fine.” I uttered.
Through his hair my hands meandered
He blinked the memories gone than
He fell into his slumber.
“I’m here. I’m here.” I whispered.
I've heard the hollowness of my heart
as it threw itself against the bone.
Etched with blood are the counted
longings for flesh.
Our trembling fingers traced the vessels of our souls,
unsure if the curtains blocked the moon.
Yet, as the late night characters cast their shadows
upon the end of the bed, we became attune.
While he slept in his bedroom, convincing himself of his innocence, I slept on the bitten flesh above the thumbnail. He murmurs. A quick whispered proclamation. I was drunk. Yet, his lips I felt. Smooth. Soft. Sober.
From the moment we are born, we are branded for death. Our battle cries go unheard as we are left at the doorsteps of hell. We've had to make home of flames and smoke. Of rotten flesh and decay. Each passing moment is like the last-silence, cradling hearts, a hollow promise of hope.
My necromancer beckons the senses from
their humble dwellings, from deep within.
This body, weakened by the harsh whips
of the societal machine, is brought to life.
Yet, the life it brings is only a star at night.
Come morning, Earth will shun the light
emitted by the small seedling. But, I'll
gather the seedlings. I'll plant them.
I'll bring to life their weakened bodies
as a necromancer, as their god.
Before I was ten years of age,
I never questioned where I came from.
Home is synonymous to moonshine
and NASCAR. So when a woman I've
never meant bellowed for me to go
back to where I came from, I didn't understand.
But my mother did and she ushered me inside.
I’ve never been afraid of the dark
Those old tales were never stocked
But mama said to be scared
She said demons in the night lark
Choosing their victims leaving scars
But I just didn’t care
Oh, the night was my only friend
And I didn’t want that to end
And if it consumed me then I die
But at least I was happy before the good-bye.
For months I've been
Empty like a room when
The mourners leave.
I tried my hand at poetry
And left papers
Scattered on the floor
hoping the words
would bring me comfort,
yet I'm only reminded
that with my own thoughts
I am alone.
When we are awaken by the phone's alarm,
you groaned and asked if you may hold me
for five more minutes. Five minutes is all you
need to quickly study the curvature of my body.
You explain that you are an abandoned spacecraft
orbiting around the earth unable to land,
but by flexing your fingers to revive the memory you're
grounded. I call ******* and shake my head, dismissing
your words as morning ramblings of a man deprived
of the essential: coffee.
Our five minutes are up and as we both struggle with the routine of leaving, I catch a glimpse of something I've never knew I was missing. You stand in a wrinkled T-shirt and gym shorts with a bit of morning breath. You walk me to my truck. With the final I love you's and rumbling of the engine, you kiss me. How I wish I had held you for five more minutes.
I know I got to think of myself and I
But when I do I think of them ocean eyes.
I know it's wrong, but lord knows I've tried
to forget him.
I've done all I could think of
but the memories remind me of the love.
I hear his voice in the summer hum
as I go to the lake to swim.
It's nestled in the blankets.
How I would like to join it.
To wrap my arms around its body
To remind them of the lie
That the world is a decent place.
But the coffee it drinks is stout.
Creamless. Black. Without sugar.
The black of your tongue
Reminds me of government.
Because your words slice through the air like that of a soldiers shot.
You say that I must trust you with the sun as your witness.
But trust is something to be earned. the government is meant to protect me, yet that is the face I am hiding from.
Currently, the band is playing.
A ballad for the crowd.
His voice rings inside the glass
Stiring the Scotch and ice.
The low bar light casts a shadow on
The pool table in the back.
Where are my friends.
Have they gone.
Last call i heard.
But the music is here.
The man is here.
The cars roll by
The summer haze
Blurs their color
And the roads
All i see are entities
I have night on my lips
its taste is of the stars
I've held myself
under the moon
with only the air.
I've bitten my tongue
to pour lost souls
onto the plains.
Yet, I have not seen the sun.
I am reminded of the books
when the hair on your arm
brushes against mine.
She cites from them
from time to time.
A bell tolling in my distance
Pulsing a vibration
glowing with the moon.
I've tried to let you know
where I stand in life
but you didn't show
any interest in what I had to say
but darling that was your mistake
There are verses I want to scribe,
but I am afraid I haven't the time.
So, I sit upon the bed and watch
the analog clock glow by.
Minute for minute, my eyes become sore
as I am fixated on the closet door.
I know I desire to express more,
but I am left alone.
I am alone.
A scrap of magazine.
Are at my hands.
The cigarette lighter feels blue
but the rough squared edges
make me see the water.