I came to you
like a blinded man
a supplicant on the road to ruin
Someone who had once owned hope
but sewed it up in a sack
and gave it
to a beggar on the street

I came to you
like a condemned man
inches from the noose
holding hands with a phantom
a shadow masquerading as
wisdom
or death

Finally
I came to you
in desperation
the desperation of those
whose parents have disowned them
of those with a terminal disease
called life
a street corner clown
miming his passions
one false tear
tattooed on his cheek

And you humored me
Held me at arm's length
while you wove
a spider's web shield
to wrap up your heart
defend it
never truly surrender it

Yet you
dear heart
are my one

I never thought it would be like this
never imagined
that a bloviated moon
would sleep between us.
That a crows' chorus
would be our wedding march.
Yet here we are.
Dare I say it?
At peace.

I'm dying,
Feeling the comforting cloud of death
doing flip-flops through my strain.
Energy bursts are useless attempts
     at frosting flakes of panic and regrets.
Slipping.
Forgetting.
Curt instructions from a dangerous smile.

Cloud of death. Your mysterious tension
        caresses every
        blood-vein in my body.
My lungs restrict,
my lungs constrict.
Empty shallow boxes
      filled with the nothing of
        resistance.

Can’t anyone see? Does anybody know?

Does
    anybody
     have the
      slightest idea
       of just how
        tiresome
         paying
          attention
           can be?

So let me go. So leave me alone.
Let the fibres of believing unravel,
        slip apart
        like
        cracked glass
          about to
          shatter.
I'm hurting.
Disillusioned membranes zoning into silence.
The self-illusion so palpable and strong.
Hope
      is for people
             who have
                   flowers to grow.

Years later
muffled like new snowfall
this ash
permeating teeth and skin.

Back then, I was still naive enough to trust
Old Jimmy when he offered to fly me
over the blast zone in his beat-up Cessna
the words Scenic Tours peeling off its purple tail.

His latent appetite would later manifest  
on the ride home in his musty Cadillac
the passenger door dented shut
preventing an easy exit.

That day
gray extended
as far as eyes could see
denuded trunks laid to rest
in perfect unison

we flew
for miles and miles
over nothing living

just ash
permeating teeth and skin
fallen matchsticks
and men.

Like wild oats
the lonesome poets
grow in the ditches
alongside back roads
and when it rains
they drink too much
like the low cotton
in dry fields forgotten
by dirt poor farmers
whose wives run off
with the first stranger
who wipes his shoes
on the porch before
selling her a pretty pair
of green lace underwear
like a bird sick of its tree
dreaming of new leaves.

I recall sailing sticks in front yard rain pools when I was young
Box Turtles leaving their wooded cover for the cool afternoon reward
Insects of every size and shape on starry Summer night porches
Pungent , wetted tilled earth on June mornings