Of all the things
I need the most,
running water,
and glaring ghosts,
silence is
the sweetest gift.

Bubbles blow up
dancing in
cold shadows
as multi colored
oil spirals
circle
inside those
soapy dreams.

Fireflies
lite up
late nights
while flint rocks
make shocking sparks.

I sit on
the rough rooftop
looking up
into the dark
infinite,
that same space
that shared
those strange moments.

These thoughts
are carried long distances
between
those strange instances,
a pleasant past
of playful moments
that never lasts,
but blast pass
all those broken
memories.

Perhaps,
I held to many
expectations.

Is it right
to expect
a mother
to have patience,

To not lash out,
to truly think about
the hearts of
their child’s aspirations.

These are my specters
visitations
of previous incarnations
of pain.

Perhaps,
I should not
hold high
the standard
of acceptance
and appreciation.

That was not her job.
She did do her job,
maybe not
as the perfect
maternal figure,
but she was a provider,

Perhaps,
that is all
that I can truly ask of her,
my mother.

A soft sympathetic voice
cries

Please,
don’t forget
what I was,

a child of love.

Please don’t
let go
of my heart.

Please,
be kind
and kindle
the hearth fire
of compassion.

Please don’t run
when I need you
to stay.

Please,
oh please
don’t
forget me.

The gentle voice
slips away
as the barer
stares coldly
into a blank face.

It is a dark mirror
that marks his change.

It is a worrisome world
that keeps itself
in a state of peril.
A galaxy of
merry fools
who fail to remember
the lessons of
all those old
days of December.

I feel dislocated,
isolated,
less than hated
because to the masses
I am irrelevant.
Even when,
I speak the truth
in poetry,
trying to make
it more palatable,
I am unknowable.

A Rockstar of the mind,
but my people
will not find the time
to remember
what I offer,

and as we
disintegrate
from history
space and time
will not be bothered
to remember
this bothersome
human species.

He is alone
licking the salt filling
from his cheesy crackers
before crunching them.

Then it is time for him
to do his last patrol.
A set of standard keys
jingles against
the walkie talkie.

It is quiet except
for the extra foot steps
that sound on the ground
behind him.
He turns and
tracks them
to an empty elevator,
that seems to be
changing
floors
of its own volition.

He follows grey stairs
that step up to nowhere,
then walks along
the long quiet corridors
pursued by the sound of
the stuttering
heating and cooling system.

Small papers
covered in
water colors
spin in
the shape of
folded white flowers,
sadly lacking
any rosy scent.

Photos from years ago
adorn the thin walls
of the day worker’s
cubicles,
in the darkness
they seem to blink
quizzically.

The sweet perfume
of holiday treats
lingers and draws him
several feet off course,
towards tiny red lights
that flicker
shifting
in the strange spectrum
of dimly lit rooms,
as the coffee pots
burn off
the last bits
of brown liquid.

A stray stag statue
stares creepily
at the fire alarm.
In the darkness
it seems to shift its
antler covered head
in the direction
of the security guard.

He brushes it off
and finishes the
last part of
his hour long walk,
to find a door unlocked.

He hears a cough,
then jumps in start
turning to see
his evening relief
fifteen minutes early.

It is a porcelain battlefield
and I hear the
brown bodies drop
with a wet thwap.

I push and strain
against the pain
to purge this
unpleasant thang.

Prickly peanuts
thick and hard
tearing me up
as I yell
“Arrrrggggh.”

Hold on tight,
it’s one hell
of a fight.

A fearsome foe
falls once more.

Then I hear
civilians holler,
“God no
that’s so gross!”

“Oh no,
collateral damage!”
I think as
puffs of spray
are spritzed my way,
cause in the heat
of this hard-won battle,
I forgot to
shut the door.