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Nightwolf Mar 2018
-1
I took my broken pain
and laid it in a cradle;
I hid it from the world
in the dark corners
of my secluded dwelling,
caressed it tenderly,
and fed it bite sized bits
of anger and contempt,
until it blossomed
the most beautiful hatred
I have ever known.
It stretched forth vines
-gnarled and twisted-
with barbed thorns
that clung
to my every limb;
enshrouding me in a deep
and comfortable nirvana.

How I hate
how much I love
my hatred;
the only genuine gift
I can give freely.


©Nathan A. Brock 2018
Nightwolf Oct 2018
I cut the chords from my throat
presenting them as a gift
in homage to the gods of the citadel
burying my resentment
with the bones of my ancestors.

I ripped the nerves from my face
and offered my apathy
to the wraiths that would prey
on the bitterness of mute lamentation.

I tore the veins from my arm
to free the repressed tears
that flowed like a creek over my wrist
and into a silver phial.

I dipped my quill in the phial
and let the shadows hear
the sound of my voice.

©Nathan A. Brock
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.  
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.

He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.

Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.

I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.

Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy  brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.

With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.

    
                                  Paul  Anthony Hutchinson
Nightwolf Nov 2018
I suppose I should be
thankful that
no one will be
disturbing
my drink


©Nathan A. Brock 2018
Nightwolf Nov 2018
My words have been
held
within the confines
of my head; locked
behind tight iron lips;
bouncing
off the walls of my skull
in wondrous merriment
multiplying
and making new friends
amongst themselves.

Collating in an uprising
of sentences
- nouns and verbs
set aside their differences,
and become one
for one purpose.

They charge the iron gate
that is my clenched jaw,
as I fight the onslaught
of verbal warfare
coming from within.

They must not escape!!

One final push
and the gate flies
free
from it's hinges,
as my words spring forth
in triumphant absurdity;
flying free
from the deep silence
that once tortured them
so tirelessly.


©Nathan A. Brock 2018
Nightwolf Nov 2018
My desk is a boring place.

I sit for
hours scrolling through
long lists of emails and
service requests;
barely enough coffee in
my cup to erase the
blur from my screen.

Ahh, my desk is a
boring place.

There’s a cat on my
calendar that
stares at me in a
perpetual state of nervous
anticipation,
as if awaiting my
next movement
that it might
spring out of view
and hide beyond the edge
of it’s page.
But it doesn't; it sits and
gawks unmoving.

More emails..

Yet another printer is
down; the
same printer from last week.

What an absolute
headache printers are.
But
at least I can leave my
desk for 30 minutes
or so.

My desk is a
boring place

When I return, I may
write a line or two
to relieve the boredom but
don't expect too
much.

Not from this poem.

This poem is a
boring
poem.


©Nathan A. Brock 2018
Nightwolf Dec 2018
Opportunity surrounds me.

Like a restaurant menu I can
pick and choose which
items bet suit my palate,
though i'm afraid my mouth is
too dry
to fully appreciate the
savor off these new cuisines -
though they are quite fresh,
well prepared and
no doubt more nutritious than my
usual burger stand;
somehow, the burger sounds more
appetizing.

I know it is quite
strange to crave a
tasteless hamburger when
fillet mignon is on the table,
but I think what I really
desire is the familiar atmosphere;
people who understand
why I'm there because
they've been doing the same for years -
keeping with the
everyday tradition of
quick and familiar.

And, though we often
fantasize of gourmet, new would be
too much of a
bother to find agreeable.

Thus, we remain satisfied with the
every day grease ball burgers and
soggy fries.


©Nathan A. Brock 2018
Nightwolf Sep 26
"You know, those cigarettes **** people."

So does old age,
cancer and disease,
drunk drivers and guns,
angry fathers and husbands,
mountain lions and bears,
global warming and smog
and somewhere
theres a teacup poodle
eating the body of his owner
who just died of a heart attack
after a vigorous night
with a japanese *******.

I dont concern myself with death.
least of all, my own.


©Nathan A. Brock 2019
Nightwolf Sep 22
The elixir of life is no fairytale;
we call it coffee.

I was recently gifted with a
Starbucks gift card.
I hate Starbucks but one never knows
when one might find themselves without
and it's always good to have a backup plan.

Just such a morning was this!
With no coffee and no money, I remembered
the giftcard in my wallet and
started off for a cup of coffee that tastes
nothing like coffee should.

I arrived at Starbucks where I was
greeted by an over enthusiastic "Barista"
- I hate that word -
and placed my order of a large
medium roast with room for cream.
(You must let them know you would like room or they will fill it to the brim - one of the few redeeming qualities of this chain.)

I headed out to a small patio
located on the roof of the shop and on my
way up the stairs, my foot slipped
and down I came in slow motion - my
eyes never leaving the precious
elixir in my hand and, somehow,
managed to set it gently on its bottom
on a step above me as my knee and
shoulder crashed into the stairs.

A little spilled through the lid and onto
my arm, but only a little.

My coffee was saved!

As I mull over the events of this morning,
it only goes to show that no matter
how much I may dislike a particular
coffee chain, nothing could be more
terrifying than the thought of
facing the day with no coffee at all.


©Nathan A. Brock 2019

— The End —