Jericho, at fourteen
Lifts heavy the light snuggie around his arms
Forgets some of the women standoffish with his numbness
Beaten into a craggy duff box
As an old man
Set free every morning in the dream door, sleep as empty and numb
Drowning in light
Out and up from the heights
To the glittering spires of an exalted city
To a raging wildfire slowly snuffing itself out around the edges
Then, a young man learning the back of his head and what people called him
His death then was a shiny new pane of dark frosted plastic
His nights then much organized plastic
Dull as dirt 'neath the evening moon
Each star hungry for sun to give it brilliance, something for us all to forget
His thick toes gun for a thousand
None
Carving his face in the dirt with water
None
Stalling for a long time while away from him
None
Scribbling content hieroglyphics to forget her lying eyes
None
Descending ever deeper, reaching for the nets
That are hopelessly out of her reach
He rubs his fingers along the smooth surface of the tumbler once a year
Against hope and hoping against a chance to ignore her face
And he won't eat anymore from the split pig
And stay in the oxygen town and stay awake for weeks at a time
As if the hoot owl didn't have enough songs to sing.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Jericho, at fourteen
Lifts heavy the light snuggie around his arms
Forgets some of the women standoffish with his numbness
Beaten into a craggy duff box
As an old man
Set free every morning in the dream door, sleep as empty and numb
Drowning in light
Out and up from the heights
To the glittering spires of an exalted city
To a raging wildfire slowly snuffing itself out around the edges
Then, a young man learning the back of his head and what people called him
His death then was a shiny new pane of dark frosted plastic
His nights then much organized plastic
Dull as dirt 'neath the evening moon
Each star hungry for sun to give it brilliance, something for us all to forget
His thick toes gun for a thousand
None
Carving his face in the dirt with water
None
Stalling for a long time while away from him
None
Scribbling content hieroglyphics to forget her lying eyes
None
Descending ever deeper, reaching for the nets
That are hopelessly out of her reach
He rubs his fingers along the smooth surface of the tumbler once a year
Against hope and hoping against a chance to ignore her face
And he won't eat anymore from the split pig
And stay in the oxygen town and stay awake for weeks at a time
As if the hoot owl didn't have enough songs to sing.
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