Beyond the chipped paint and tarnished handle
of this old screen door once waited a garden,
a winding path of stone and dirt
I had walked many times in my life,
led to a place of wondrous beauty,
poetic blooms and intoxicating fragrances

Merely stepping beneath the Jasmine covered arbor
lifted spirits and illumined hope that all was right,
and the butterflies, oh the butterflies, winged effervescence in
sapphire, indigo, tangerine and lemon butter yellows
floated from flower to flower creating
the most wonderful dancing rainbow for the eye

I still smile when I hear those old rusted hinges squeak
and I feel that fresh air meet my face
For those memories linger in my mind,
as now I find the path overgrown, the arbor splintered and fallen
the vibrant garden a mass of **** and vine
strangling the beauty that once flourished

And I understand, life changes…slowly,
each of us deteriorate within time’s grasp,  returning
to where we began, covered in lawn and dew
beginning anew or to be forgotten…
an occasional thought that passes
down another path of another life

Now as I stand gazing at what once was,
a tear finds my cheek, meandering over these wrinkles
gathering in the corner of my mouth…salty
yet it is not the garden nor the whimsical path
that collects in my mind…it is the butterflies,
oh how I miss the butterflies…

Flies buzz around the still room
like dogs chasing cars.
An old crone is heard nagging beyond the door,
"Don't you think you're leaving to one of them bars!"

Light hasn't entered the room in days;
the dark green curtains have all been closed.
The old lady began banging against the wood,
"You still need to clip my toes!"

The room reeked of cigarette smell.
A half-burnt one existed within the ash tray.
Weeping could be heard from the other side.
"Honey, open up. Don't leave me astray.."

Next to the lime-green chair where he lay,
a dried up pen could be seen leaving his hand.
One scribbled note stood out upon the lamp table.
"Can you get off your *** and fix the **** TV stand?!"

Matilda,
            I have loved you for sixty-three years, sixty of which we've been married and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but during these past couple of years, you've become heartless. You've changed and it saddens me entirely. You're not the woman I fell in love with all those years ago, but rather this ghost that preys on the misfortune of others. Maybe it was all the radiation treatment the doctors performed or perhaps the endless drugs they made you take to numb the pain, but regardless of the mental distortion you now face, I can no longer bear it. I love you, Matilda, but it breaks my heart to see you like this. I'm sorry, but this is indeed goodbye.
                                                                                                            -Henry

The soundlessness lasted for weeks
except for the one shot that ran.
Nothing living remained in that room,
ending the life of that one old man.

You
Brought me
In blood and tears
You yourself but a child-
Into this world.
From a distance
You watched
As I grew.
First a whelp,
Now a wolf.
You
**** yourself
With every inhale
Of that odorless
Drug
And here I am
Helpless
Watching you die....
Just as
You watched me grow
Not long ago....

When I was younger, the world
was my playground. Any place,
if I believed hard enough, or even
if it just looked comfortable and I
was in the right mood, became my own.

Little fouryearold, fiveyearold, sixyearold
me, would automatically case out
the joint, scan any room, looking
for places to fit my tiny four
fivesixyearold body, comfortably.

Today I was sitting in a museum, where
benches lined in carpet lined
the walls, and a quiet voice
I had forgotten once lived inside
whispered "you could sleep here."

When I was younger, I still believed
in the power of family, of love, I
still believed we were all
alright, these things happened in every
house, and my house was the best for me.

Little fouryearold, fiveyearold, sixyearold me, little
voices whispering "you could be safe
here," little nooks and crannies to hide
your fourfivesixyearold body, I wonder
were you, even then, looking for a home?

March is made of madness,

butterflies that flutter
against my brain, my
heart, a wasp in
a jar

my voice shakes,
I drink cheap cider
that burns my insides,
from dented cans
that cut my lips

earning war wounds
as I try to cover
my battle scars

sleep chases me
and I hide in doorways,
dressed in black and blending,
begging the flickering
orange streetlights
to swallow me

his serpents tongue
licks my ear

soft, quiet and deadly

the fruit I should never
have eaten rises in my throat,
like anger

threatening to flee

and I have no choice
but to swallow
it

It's only today
and yesterday seems never was
believed its promise to stay
never thought it was so treacherous!

It's only today
and yesterday seems like a tale
that was blown way
in today's howling gale!

It's only today
and yesterday had never been
just an imagined way
never walked ever unseen!

It's only today
and yesterday was never born
somehow lost its way
in the womb of today's morn!