The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.

When the moon chooses
To take her face behind
Her silver gray garment,
And goes less bold
Before the eyes of earth,
She turns her face and hides,
And from hight to low
She shakes the tides.
There is nothing she might say
Could quell our seas
When she feels like touching,
But cannot be touched,
When she feels like looking,
But not like being watched.
For millions will feel her force,
And all must surely know,
Only one can make them ebb,
For only one can make her fade.
When he goes beyond her reach
She turns her head and sighs,
Caring less for all earth's eyes.

A small Bronze plaque commemorates
the fate of Chaffee, Grissom and White:
Near half a century has passed
since their final, fatal night.

Ad Astra per Aspera-
a rough road to the Stars.
We do well to remember that
as we make our try for Mars.

The fire was horrific
and death, though quick, was cruel:
Like heretics of an earlier age
they served as human fuel.

Engineers by radio
could hear their muffled cries.
Thick black smoke drove back
the men who made a rescue try.

Poorly insulated wires
had given off a spark.
pure oxygen has fed the flames
on that distant night so dark

Ad Astra per Aspera
a proud epitaph for them:
Apollo’s sons who heard his call
to search the skies again.

​
Her words were apologetic
And all I felt was apathy
Those lips drew lines that paralleled mine
She told me that it was her fault
But I could taste the pity
Laced with traces of my failure
And eventually these lines collide
Yet parallels should never cross
Leading us into this paradox
Where you will sleep fine
While I stay awake all night
And no matter how hard I try
I will never feel rested again.

Wait, if Jesus died for our sins,
wouldn't his sacrifice be in vein
if we don't sin?

Or, is it that
he was killed
because of our sinful nature?

Further, would his selfless redemption have been possible without the ever-so-hated Judas?
Isn't he just as necessary as Jesus to this tale?
Just as the Devil is with God?

I guess I'm overthinking this.
Thinking begets trouble.

She was born to love the moon while
his songs hailed to the sun.
Twins, twins, twins, twins, the words sound.

Her hair is short and dark when
his is long and light.
She hunts and swears and shouts,
he sings and dances and laughs.
Twins, twins, twins, twins, the words sound.

Frost covers her mouth and
his lips are warmer than the sun.
Her kisses are harsh like winter and his
are soft and sweet like midsummer rain.
Twins, twins, twins, twins, the words sound.

God of the golden bow,
      And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
      And of the golden fire,
            Charioteer
            Of the patient year,
      Where---where slept thine ire,
When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,
      Thy laurel, thy glory,
      The light of thy story,
Or was I a worm---too low crawling for death?
      O Delphic Apollo!

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,
      The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;
The eagle's feathery mane
      For wrath became stiffen'd---the sound
            Of breeding thunder
            Went drowsily under,
      Muttering to be unbound.
O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?
      Why touch thy soft lute
      Till the thunder was mute,
Why was I not crush'd---such a pitiful germ?
      O Delphic Apollo!

The Pleiades were up,
      Watching the silent air;
The seeds and roots in Earth
      Were swelling for summer fare;
            The Ocean, its neighbour,
            Was at his old labour,
      When, who---who did dare
To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow,
      And grin and look proudly,
      And blaspheme so loudly,
And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?
      O Delphic Apollo!