you wake up his hair is spilled across the pillow, the sun slants across his cheekbone and his breath is slow and even. he smells like an open field and his body is wrapped around yours so he keeps you warm. you think, there is no moment better than this, that he is too perfect to exist. but you wake up gasping, skin soaked in sweat. you lie there for a long time, in your completely empty bed.
I still dream of my father crossing the pastures on his one-eyed tractor mowing acres of sorrow heading east of a moon that'll be gone tomorrow turning one last time as if to say: so long my son there’s going to be days of sunshine and plenty more of rain as he went along his way, and my sadness waved back like grain in fields of long past summers and summers before that, so long a time ago I can remember only on lonely nights of heat lightning and the low rumble of distant thunder.
A nice surprise on this Monday evening. Thank you all very much for your reading and very nice comments. Please know that I appreciate all of you and your kind words. Thank you.
* To Ravinder Kumar Soni: Opinion entitled to and noted. Thanks for taking the time to read.
People only ever want to ask me about the poetry - those verses about busted up noses in outer space; about the pros working way down passed the corner of Broad and Main; about fistfights and hard, hard drinking. But I built a flowerbed this weekend... Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks in a crescent moon shape, filled with the blackest of soils. The sweat of toil. The digging. The planting. Exotic grasses. Asian maybe? Purple and yellow flowers. Zinnias or some **** thing. All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch. It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands instead of blood. No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.
This depression is borderline elegant, it flows through my veins like smooth jazz or a dancer's pattering feet on the cold concrete. This life of mine has chaotic undertones, don't be fooled by the silence. This poem I write is a battle cry but it's also known to me as a declaration of certain defeat.