No. 1

the swan song came out of her throat at some velocity. 

too quick for child-ears to hear,
in the room with all the toys, upstairs. 


if only you could hear it though. 

the way we taste it. 


and here, in the basement-corner turned sanctum.

do we let out a pagan ******* roar. 

with Mother Veiled-in-Sepia

and she's got her beautiful thirty-year old baby in arm. 

he's so peaceful. even during his sleep. 
even when his words meander your bible belt. 
moving downward. 
and you take them with water and bourbon as your own. 


still, 
we lie still.
fearing any movement will set off deafening alarms. 

oh WHY CAN'T YOU HEAR THEM?

they're SINGING JUST FOR YOU.
i'll help you when they all leave for home. 

get in their cars.
and travel the turnpike. 


we'll put all the leftovers in tupperware. 

clean the dishes. 

sweep the kitchen floor. 


and hum. the swan song. 

hum it til it becomes late. 

then we'll have to belt it out. 


No. 2**

nothing had made me kneel catholic, 

thin-legged on the pad, 

come three years now.
but those weren't my knees.


that, was before the tornado
 passed the toll booth, 

come into the valley. 


I wonder, if it kneels-catholic. 


That,
was at 1:43, 
and the roadster ambled towards America's waistline, 

to my left was a stark yellow of Mother's halo. 

To my right was the austere, wistful glower
of Daddy gone Thunder.

Out of nowhere, 

the roadster goes upwards.

The waistline shrinks and expands, 

Silent scream, 
and then nothing. 

It's 1:43, 
and the butterflies are awake.