Clenching. Teeth. Rattle. Sleep
is a memory.
She is dead to me... Or so I said.

Screaming. Teeth. Clench. She
is a memory.
Sleep won't erase this shaking dread.

Cigarettes. Teeth. Corks. Whiskey
is an elegy.
It reminds me there's a world outside my head.
Or so they said.

I am a falcon for you, my love.
The wren may sing; The lark may try
his hand at the heavens; The dove
may coo, but for you? I will dive
                                steep, like falling,
                                deep, like what's calling
                    me to
                                L
                            ­      E
                                     A
                                        P through this sky so blue...

                                Weep when we say "I do".

                                          I am a falcon, love,
                                 but I'll D
                                               I
                                                (V)
           ­                                        E
                                                     only for you.
                                                    If you ask me to; But speak fast.
                                                   The sky's forever far away and above.
                                                          ­But before my dive takes me past,
                                                           I can say this to you at least; at last,    
                                                           My dearest,
                                                        ­   My only,
                                                          T­he sky's forever far away and above,
                                                          ­But for me heaven lives in your eyes.
                                                           ­     I saw you and  
                                                           ­                            fell
                                                                ­                            in
__________­____________________­____________________­_______

Vibrations in lilac
across a silver face.
That's the image of you
that I conjure and brew
in my cauldron. I waste
no imagination; It's Lilac.
Silver and vibration. Back
to the time when we were new
and untouched by the black brew
that I stir in my mind when I think of you.
But now, when I think of it...
The world's boiling over.
and I don't know what to do.

If your lips ever chap
when they feel my fire
I will know the end is what you desire.

If your cheeks ever shake
at the touch of my hands
I will yield to your unspoken demands.

If your hair ever splinters
at my fond folding caress,
I will leave from my hands every silken tress.

But should those eyes shine
when they meet my own sight
I will endeavour forever to be with you tonight.

Gift to me affirmation, consolation;
Gift to me longing laughter's delight.
I will endeavour forever to be with you tonight.

Worn converses scuff the floor.
     The crowd sings, and they roar
     his name. Things aren't the same
     like anonymous Mondays before.

He pulls out his strings. Silence.
Steel vibrates and sings; Violence
erupts and again he hears his name.
It isn't the same... but he finds it
strangely fitting; On this stage
he's the benefactor and the tyrant.
He's the laughter, killing quiet.
It's not your average Monday
but no surprise, he finds he likes it.

Never been there.
Can't talk about it much.
I've seen shadows on the wall.
Crying faces in my dorm hall.
I've seen reflections of friends
in the communal toilet while they Puke-TSD.
Can't talk about it much.
It's not a subject I like to touch.
Never been there.
Never talking like I've seen it all.
They have. Ask them what it's like to fall
down and check your face for scrapes
and have other people put band-aids
on your ***. ("Oops, my mistake!")
Or better yet, don't.
Don't ask me.
Don't ask them.
They can talk.
I've never been.

If they ask, you can answer with the voice of a friend.
But don't ask. Don't reopen the PTSDen
of pain and the past. Just listen if they ask.
Have some ******* courtesy till then.

On August 18, 1936,
a 38-year-old Spanish poet
named Federico García Lorca
was taken from a jail cell
in the city of Granada,
escorted to a courtyard
in the hills outside the city,
and executed for the crime
of loving life and Spain.
Bullets are as lethal to poets
as to anyone else.
Lorca died and fell
and was buried in a rude grave
just where he hit the ground.
His books were burned
in the public square.
What the Fascist beasts
failed to understand
in their deadly ferocity
was that killing a poet is easy,
but killing his poems is impossible.
Franco is long dead,
his Fascist minions scattered,
but Lorca's poems sing
more sweetly than when he breathed
and the Spain he loved
listens with eager ears
and chants them with living joy.