1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012

His eyes seem to be
almost as if he is sleeping,
dreaming of New York City and
bright lights and other girls
dancing among flashing strobes,
their trendy halters halting his breathing
and startling him back into awareness.

He realizes he’s been resting
his cheek on his knuckle, though
all he can really feel is numbness and
a slight tingle as his nerves begin to increase
to match the angle of the plane.

The jolt of landing reawakens his arm
and the buzzing bee inside his brain
as he envisions with an almost painful smile
a perfect dive into the great water before him.

He is there and I am here, but
my hair is dripping wet.

.wet as

long-sound
footsteps on the scuff of downturned sidewalks

estranging.
distance
.from us

as wrought iron bridges
meeken,

aching.
like a saxophone

.the
pin-patter

I
An orange overcast this
evening splayed pink
hues stripes and
saccharine beads. The

twilight caricatures live golden years.

Restless becoming in the garden of
her drunken sons their flowers
soaked in brass, seams
bursting in uncontrollable
laughter we pause. To
admire the briefness

of that era exploding
its petals peppering
spraying saliently we spill
indoors churning across tabletops.
My arms hang dead by my sides.

Her eyes gaping sway
swiftly biting deeply the dottedfaces
lurch. Streets fall unconditional
amidst tears we comb lips
sharply distinctly

her stubborn *** stumbling
handles loosening she holds
my hand my arms hang
dead we pause.       

II
Children babble sunlight across
lawns; I hear sirens traffic icecream nips
our tongues twinge on windless
pipes gust our hair flying smiling
at laughter  from the
playground behind us.

Placid smiles stain enamoured
halls; for glimpses
we mumble necks crooked
sheets flap  draped over bars
her eyes waver glisten
shiver. A warm breeze
dries my hair.

III
Wallowing I oscillate utmost trep-
-idation entangling grappling but
hushed beneath foliage eyes
downturned soil clings when her

fingers impress deeper through
to where rivers end.
Glowing dawn I turn further
lighter almost her hair caught

between the floors;
gently feverish we see turgid
lines the tinniest cracks we pray
on tranquil mornings.

Window panes blemished it was
spring only darker from
deafened rivers throbbing;
under lucid eyes I fold
and heralds blare. We consume
the silence sounding from still lakes.

Walking down my lane with downturned chin
every bit of bright closing up shop for the season
I noticed a fluttering butterfly beckoning me on
leading me to an enclosed tunnel of riotous color!


Stepping inside, my view was obscured by foliage
every texture and hue with unlimited adornment
a studious lady with a clipboard stepped out from
a row of sunflowers, vivid coral with buttery edges.


I was stunned by the majesty of her shiny black hair
and I remembered reading about a plant whisperer
so I asked: “Are you the bloomin’ botanist of lore?
Please show me how you create all these colors!”

She nodded her head, with a big wide smile, saying: 'Yes! For Sure.'
We were soon amidst foliage, so green, so pure
She handed me a twig of dark pink rose,
She smiled in surprise, like a playful child,
Asked, 'Isn't this one adorable enough to be explored?'

I was thrilled to glance at the rose, the one indeed majestic enough to be explored!
She plucked a petal, and the fragnence filled my nose,
She told me of a 'pigment', called Anthocyanin
The initial chemical constituent that provides it's colours.

I pointed my finger towards a yet wonderful rose,
The one yellow, with tint of orange edges in a big wide row.
It ignited my curiosity & more to explore,
I asked: 'What's the pigment for those colours?'

She smiled & led me closer to that row,
A row whose smell grew intense and more.
She picked a petal on her palms to explore,
& told it was a blend of two colors!

The sunset yellow the flower showed, was due to a pigment called 'Carotene'
The orange tint at the petal's end
Was due to a fixed mix of Carotene and Anthocyanin!

She told that plants have a definite substance,
A chemical constituent called 'Pigment'.
These pigment yield the colors so new,
The ones we call Lavendry, rosy, grapy and  hues.

While most leafes have a common green pigment,
Which makes them so greeny in appearance
Is nothing but this common pigment,
A pigment called 'Chlorophyll' often.


I was thrilled, amazed, and smiled so wide,
To quench the thirst, my mind always strived!
These flowers, these plants, these leafes and trees that surrounds us all sides,
Have a natural colour pallete, named 'Pigment'' inside!
The one that imparts the colors so bright.

And while my heart was imbibed in this thought,
My soul danced to discover this merry thought.
My mind, My eyes, got stuck at a flower!

The flower was adorable, with a lotusy pink view,
But I saw a bee, dancing around & singing, buzzing.
I gazed, I watched, I wondered, and pondered.
My mind had a question, which urged the answer!


I turned then to my plant whisperer,
For a yet new answer,
She turned back with her utmost grace,
Asked 'Is there a new question for me to be answered?'


I pointed my hand towards the bumblebee,
I asked why was she dancing around those flowers incessant and merrily?
Are those flowers in any ways necessary for those bees?
What are those creatures doing, minsculely in the centre of the rose disc?


She smiled in delight, with a radiant face in confidence,
I was sure, she'd teach me something interesting then!
She told me they were helping the flower with pollination,
They are nature's pollinating agents!


The flowers we see, with the adorable hues
Are bright & attractive for a reason good,
You see the bees, You'll see the birds, You'll even the honeybees doing the same the wiggle
The all come here to **** flower's sweet juice,
& While they **** it from their nectar tubes,
Their bodies pick some pollen granules!


Those pollens are the powdery make seeds,
Which are often present at the central disc.
The flies when **** the sweet flower's juice,
They sit on the structure, called 'pollen bed', and fill their 'pollen baskets' till the deeper depths!

While these bees, leave the flower at their best, ready to go to a flower next,
Their wings dust these pollen dust, to the flower's pollen tube,
Ready for the phenomenon next!
A phenomenon called 'Fertilisation' best!

The fertilisation is the fusion of male to a female's reproductive cell,
A phenomenon which forms new 'Embryonic cells'.
The Embryo formed is but the new young cell,
Ready for the cycle, it's origination led.

Nature adorns this embryo with petals,
A structure we know as 'flowers' and its  'Whorls'
The center of which forms new pollen cells,
Ready for the cycle, a part of the cycle
Of turns into a mature adult.

You said this,
that I gave more than you wanted
that I surrounded you,
smothered you with plumped up pillows
and forced you into swaddling clothes,
too tight for a grown man.
You were wrong.

And now I wear bedsocks to stave off a chill that
has nothing to do with barometric pressure,
mocked by a too big duvet in an aftershave scented bed.

I take my usual route and stare at the downturned faces
of busy people who don’t wish to look my way,
no matter, they haven’t realised how special I am.

I’m here to win you back.
I’ll come at you with perfumed cards.
Accost you with sugary tokens.
Stab at you with flowered stems.
Your letterbox is your eyes and ears
and I’m jamming myself into it,
waiting for you to come home.

Grief is not a song you wrote once
Nor the padded, downturned corners of your face.

Grief lives below your footsteps
A black hole with mass
in the shape of a giant ape.
Each of your labored steps begets its sweeping swing below.
Your soles are its vines.

Between each footstep, as it moves with you
you think the weight of it might be gone.
Grief delights in this deception
as it seizes up-down once more,
reaching into the core of you
and pulling it to the bottom of your shoes.
Some part of you, torn away, lands with a leaden thunk
and cramps the delicate inner muscles of your feet.
Maybe it’s the soul
or more likely
it’s some forgotten vestigial *****
which only emerges through its own absence.

Now hollow in your middle
the muscles surrounding contract in confusion
thinking, knowing, that the empty space is wrong
but not quite able to recall
what had been there in the first place.
and so you think your heart is seized by grief,
when really, you are confused, you are feeling only
nothing.

as Grief lives beneath the ground
as Grief swings beneath your feet.

minutes, hours, seconds even

Painfully dance by mocking me
Tick… Tock… Tick… Tock…
Teasing me with hopes of the future
Tick Tick… Tock… Tick Tick… Tock
Leaving me with heartache of the past
Tock…Tock……Tock……… Tick

Deep breaths and Heavy Sighs
They leave my downturned mouth.
Years of youth kept my heart full of hope
But now all that’s left is this lump of regret
Stuck in my throat
Drink it down with the sadness

Time, you’re such a cruel keeper of dreams.

I once saw a man sitting at
the bar of one of my favorite dives,
and he looked so handsome in his
profile,
his lips gingerly kissing a bottle
of craft beer,
his suit fitted just right
against his sculpted
frame.

He stared intently through his
trendy glasses
at the glow of his
laptop screen,
and I imagined he was
reading something involving
important business,
or maybe a book about a
new age philosophy as he
pondered the meaning of life.

He seemed so comfortable
and familiar in his
solitude,
like he traveled often and
had grown to love himself
immensely;
he valued his alone
time.

I imagined he went to some
ivy league school,
like Brown or Cornell,
where he studied business and
made his parents proud.
He still likes to learn and finds
the world to be a
blissfully curious place.

I was enthralled with
the picture I had drawn in
my head as I
gazed at his strong jaw
and white smile,
and I couldn't help but whisper
to my friend how
infatuated I was with the
view from
my seat in our wooden booth,
when my friend chuckled
nervously,
his brows downturned as he
erased all I had
drawn and replaced the
picture with
he's homeless.

She sits with her eyes downturned,
Legs and arms crossed closed
I can feel her heartbeat against my hand resting on her back
She rocks her body slowly backwards and forwards
She rocks away from me

A single tear drop rolls down her cheek
Sitting, glistening with the faint light of the moon
She slowly raises her head
Her eyes and face contorted with grief
The flood gates open, and tears begin to roll down

I feel my insides spasm, contract and writhe
I start to feel nauseous, I knew this was coming
Why didn’t I see it?
Maybe it was just me
How could a girl like her ever consider me...?

A girl that glides into rooms
Dress flowing with each and every step
Weightless,
Elegant,
Beautiful...


I try to reach out, to grab her, to hold on
But she’s slowly moving away from me
I try to grab on harder, to pull her into me
Her body feels limp, empty and hollow
Now she’s standing

I feel my heart skip a beat
My hands are shaking, uncontrolled
I feel cold, barren, and desolate
I feel heart-broken
Now I’m standing

“I love you, don’t leave!”
She turns around
Her eyes glazed over, lifeless
I see her head drop a little
She’s made up her mind

I hold her vacant gaze
She’s looking through me
Exposing me
Tearing me apart
She turns away

My eyes swell up with tears
They feel puffy and sore
I stare at her back as she walks away
Her body slouched and tired
She doesn’t look back...

Take your sweetness
and bury it deep,
for now is the time
that fire is needed;
hide the tenderness
where you'll remember
to never forget, for
the only fear to fear
is the wild running
through your veins;
take your boldness,
your coffee black nerve
and steady hand squeezing
a hot coal without a flinch;
take your bravery,
your sea legs stiffened
against the storm
of indecision;
take your bright eyed stare
into the dark clouds coming,
take them and nod your head
with downturned lips
at all you were afraid to be.

Death, my friend, your hands are so cold.
You cup my cheek and ice ****** my teeth.
You’re so cold, Death, my friend. So cold.
Don’t you want some heat, some warmth?
Will you take some from me?—
I’ll gladly give it, you know—my warmth.
I’m not using it. But you can, if you want.
Death, my friend, you look so sad.
Your eyes are drawn, your cheekbones haggard;
The corners of your mouth are downturned.
Smile, Death, please. Smile for me.
I want to see the flicker of colour in your skin.
Will you smile genuinely for me?
I’ve seen your wan smile, you know.
That is no way to smile—monochrome
Has no right to alight on your face.
Death, my friend, you look so lonely.
You’re not alone, not forgotten.
I’m with you, I see and remember you,
I am not afraid of you. I like you.
You’re my friend, remember? Your friend.
Friends want friends to be warm,
To smile with every colour that has ever graced
A paintbrush, a canvas, a child’s dream.
Death, my friend, why are you holding me?
Is my warmth helping? Have I made you happy?
Death, my friend, your arms are so warm.
Or am I just cold in comparison?
Death, my friend, thank you for smiling so beautifully.
I’m glad you’re warm.

I found within the shattered pieces
of this broken heart
a glowing golden orb
emitting an enchanting light,
soft and soothing
A calm swept over me
like a warm gentle breeze
on the most beautiful spring day
of which I had never felt before

My eyes were wide
as a smile found my face, lifting corners
where only a downturned
form had rested before
Sadness seemed a cloud
that was quickly moving away
from the visions I had lived
Once my eyes adjusted
to their new surroundings I saw

It was you, this glow, it always had been you
Lingering long before we met,
before we fell in love, then sadly fell apart
Yet where others would have ended,
we began again, together
walking out of this darkness
hand in hand, within a different kind of love
as we began our new journey
basking in the glow of friendship

Swollen eyes, dark and deep,
Hollow pits from lack of sleep.
Rolling down her porcelain cheek,
A single tear, helpless and meek.
Downturned lips kept tightly shut,
Holding back thoughts and words that cut.

Bitten nails wrapped into fists,
Battle wounds curve round her wrists,
Hate and shame across her skin,
She learnt to hide it, she learnt to fit in.
Insecurities lurk beneath tattered clothes,
A world of secrets that no one knows.

The looking glass shows her broken, afraid,
And to herself this is how she’s portrayed,
But to lens and to eye this girl cannot be seen,
To the world she appears as any other teen.
Surrounded by friends she laughs loud and smiles wide,
So no one will know the pain she suffers inside.

a blind horizon   

dressed from head to toe in all black
he shades the ground he walks on piercing
blue eyes and hair of twilight
madness the desire
to leave this asylum of boredom
burns strong in his carefully caged heart
yet he lingers like a piece of lint on fabric
there’s something holding him back
perhaps
it’s the smell of hazy pollution
or
it’s the comforting shadows of tall figures

or perhaps it’s the arms around his frame
who think they know him best

tugging him from the unknown
down into the crevices of his childhood
down down down
down down
down

down

down

the thing is
he thinks he is
not so far down that he can’t stand again
he knows that his legs work and he know his city by heart
knows every street sign and every gutter
knows every turn and every crack in the black sidewalks

but he’s tired of knowing
he wants to not
no
and the unknown
is what entices him
draws him to his boots and to his nearly

empty

bag
he waits til night where it blendsin with black city
he’s just another bug crawling through the dirt now
it’s quiet but the
silence
hurts his ears and clouds his mind
it’s too loud
he has no map because he does not know where to begin
he just follows the stars laid out before his black city
and attaches his blue eyes to the brightest white and walks
forward forward forward

backward
one last look
will he come back
he doesn’t want to know

the nights are comforting, reminding
him of the place he left
behind
the days are long and hot
hot, an unfamiliar feeling
that crawls from his ankles to his brow
one long creature of perspiration
leaving a trail of novelty behind him

he’s now a crow against the white clouds
white, not grey
white, not black
bright, not dark
bright, it hurts his eyes!
squeeze them tight and wait a few more hours
wait just wait and it’ll be over
how was he to know of this blinding backdrop
he wasn’t

at night when he rests
he barely lights a fire
the flames too hot and bright
like the day he dreads tomorrow

he feels exposed and
vulnerable now in the clear, wavering air
he doesn’t like it
he didn’t know

he decides he doesn’t like the sun
he decides he likes the sun
it provides a penetrating stare he’s not used to
not the shifty eyes and downturned faces he is
but it’s so hot and it hurts his skin
his eyes
his eyes that never knew light, bright white light
the sight he needs but doesn’t want to know
anymore

he needs this
he needs to know more
he needs

he doesn’t know what he needs

he continues down the uncarved path
and doesn’t look behind
him
afraid that if he does
he will turn and go back to the knowing world
he forces his feet to pound the stones
and keep walking
walking
he already knows how to walk

there are some things that he can’t let go of
those things that he knows
and knows how to do them
they will always be with him
he knows how to walk
to talk to breathe to sleep to eat to drink to sit to stand

to run

running from the knowing
running to the unknown
run run run
keep running


stop
what’s that
a lonely other figure standing beside him
it’s a dark shade coloring the white ground beneath
him
it takes awhile
for him to realize that it’s his shadow
cast from the burning star above
he revels in this newfound companionship
he’s found a piece of himself on this path
he’s found something he knows
amazing
how something so starkingly beautiful can
come from something he’s learned to hate
this unknown balance has him smiling

he wants it to rain
wants to feel the cooling sensation
that horripilation
that awakens him from momentary slumber

he wants the wind
that invisible force that pushes and pulls
him in all directions

he wants darkness back
not just a wanderer that follows his every
move

he misses it, that vast city
that bathes its citizens in calming blackness
in dark knowing

he pushes forward
forward into the deep white abyss of
places foreign
and things unrecognizable

the unknown is tantalizing
and only the tantalizing can be clever enough
to catch its victims in a web of ugly misconceptions
unlike the black knowing miles from his feet
miles and miles and miles

his spine bends as he avoids the gaze
of the sun
careful or it will bend permanently
like the fuzzy shadow under his eyes

bring more light and more unrecognizable things
he only knew of black and different greys
but there are more
much more

he comes to a giant pool of water
with which the rim is far beyond the point of existing
he’s never known this much water all at
once

he continues to walk
he does not know how to move his arms
or his legs in such a fashion
and soon he’s buried deep within the pool

there’s a heavy silence
and a sinking feeling
he’s doesn’t move
but falls into the comforting darkness
into the unknown

alien in a fish bowl.
speckled with shame
squirming under
the microscope
of
speculation and
imposed so-called
'morals' of
those who
take it upon
themselves to
regulate
others.

jaws disengage to drop further still
to the ground.
eyes shot out needles
to pierce every exposed
inch of
flesh on
my body.

eyes wide
swell like an ocean wave
from all sides.

there is a permanent furrow in my brow.
lips downturned at the slightest
potential threat.

at 4 i was invincible
at 5 i could fly
at 6 i could talk to wolves
at 7 i was one with nature
at 8 i drew shamelessly
at 9 i was a trapeze artist
at 10 an archaeologist
at 11 i braided grass
at 12 i crushed berries to make paint
at 13 i died a little inside.
and a little more each year thereafter.

She has aged twenty five years
in five
the lines around her eyes
from too many nights
of crying
the downturned frown of her lips
from her love dying

Now she's ancient, centuries old,
the aftermath of sociopathy
being fake loved and discarded
has left her broken hearted

There's no filler for this space
there's no way to erase
the deeds of the takers
so she huddles in a dark cave
silently scribbling out her mistakes

loving the wrong ones
trusting in the wicked
it's a sticky situation
when the heart is pure
like children who love the hand
holding the stick that beats them

everything is gray
the wispy strands of hair
the wrinkled skin of her hands
the callouses on the tips
the false admiration leaving their lips

The blood has left her veins
It was drained by every lover
who ****** her dry
then left her in the pain
like raindrops can erase heartache
like the moon can glue the breaks

She's a cup, shattered on the pavement.
She screams she's hurting
They say "well don't."
as if sadness is a faucet that
can be set to drip so the pipes don't crack
she watches them disappear
because she's too sad

this is the trap
the liquid seeping into the concrete
as she weeps on her knees
scabbed from falling repeatedly

She's aged twenty five years
in five
Sometimes she wonders
if she's even still alive
or if she's watching a mirage
from a death realm that fakes being human
just like when she was

Nights spent quiet away from the hive
counting days until
the one she dies
hoping it goes quickly
even in her sleep
so she can bury
all the secrets she keeps

but for now its
comparisons and agitation
dismissive relations and aggravations
humans walking obliviously by
caught up with their own
uncomplicated lives
they press their heels
into flowers until they expire
or pick them to hold as they wither

She's aging sixty minutes
in one
and the process is agonizing
she didn't make this deal
to be alive while she is dying
in the rubble of the aftermath
she hears God laugh

v.k
copyright @ 2013 dbv publishing

~
Don't you cry tonight



Give me a whisper and give me a sigh

Those soft words following the emotions in your eyes
Exhaling poetry on my whimpered dreams
Take from me all that I can give while
reaching for that sunset…a distant prism of light

Give me a kiss before you, tell me goodbye

Soft lips in sad shapes, downturned towards darkened fears
Moist as they meet in wilted wishes
Walking away…a silhouette of that which I long for
As tears drift on questioned zephyrs

Don't you take it so hard now and please don't take it so bad

To know this feeling, I swear I don’t
Still calling out in echoed chants flowing naked valleys
Hoping you hear, praying you smile, asking you to listen
Before the moon fractures in cosmic sorrow

I'll still be thinkin' of you and the times we had...baby

Eternal visions find you and me, hand in hand
Dancing on quiet shores, melodic surf rhythms
In memories of what once was, what should be
and the stars drip into anguished teacups pleading

*Don’t you cry tonight…

Give me a whisper and give me a sigh

Those soft words following the emotions in your eyes
Exhaling poetry on my whimpered dreams
Take from me all that I can give while
reaching for that sunset…a distant prism of light

Give me a kiss before you, tell me goodbye

Soft lips in sad shapes, downturned towards darkened fears
Moist as they meet in wilted wishes
Walking away…a silhouette of that which I long for
As tears drift on questioned zephyrs

Don't you take it so hard now and please don't take it so bad

To know this feeling, I swear I don’t
Still calling out in echoed chants flowing naked valleys
Hoping you hear, praying you smile, asking you to listen
Before the moon fractures in cosmic sorrow

I'll still be thinkin' of you and the times we had...baby

Eternal visions find you and me, hand in hand
Dancing on quiet shores, melodic surf rhythms
In memories of what once was, what should be
and the stars drip into anguished teacups pleading

Don’t you cry tonight…

Thousands poured into the Great Hall
Waiting
In this haunted, empty room
For something to happen

Nobody sat upon the throne
But order still remained
Maybe it was in the fear
That left them silenced

The throne was industrious
All blunt, sharp lines
Of cold, heartless steel
Fogging up as the peoples’ breaths brushed it

No heat in this desolate hall
Only people’s nervous, frantic heartbeats
Echoed through the room
Marking their place as prey

Footsteps followed
Each step
A quick, sudden staccato
Steady with every beat

The people spun around
Looking for the one that approached them
But there was
No one

Anxiety wrecked through the large hall
Rebounding off of the delicate stone arches
Sailing across the cracked, concrete floor
Filling everyone’s bodies with dread

The footsteps stopped
And their leader materialized onto his cold throne
His gaze held no emotion as he crossed his legs, staring at his people--
Who returned his glare with downturned lids

He bore a crown of silver
Glittering with the madness
Atop a thick forest of black hair
That you could get lost in

His eyes were a dark stormy blue
Appraising his guests
His people
That lay scattered across the hall

A slender frame
Overshadowed by a black velvet cape
And a white collared shirt
Pure of the injuries that he had wronged others

Form fitting grey pants slung tightly over his hips
Along with a matte hand pistol
Further accentuated by his knee high leather boots
That shined with the sweat of a thousand shoe polishers

He was their dictator
They were his people
With a snap
They rose to meet his commands

Without him, they were nothing

He called for disease
Infection spread rampant
the sick fell at his feet

He called for war
The clanging of swords broke out
And wet, hot blood began to coat the slick ground

He called for famine
Hunger gnawed away at the empty, acidic stomachs of the starved
Many fell, glazed eyes betraying their desire for food

He called for death
And suddenly the survivors fell
Only a hundred of the thousand had been left
To die at his feet

The hall was empty of all souls
But one
His

He commanded all that his people could give
And left with nothing to bear
But a single throne
Of cold steel
And an bare skyscraper
With a single, Great Hall

this morning
I felt it in a damaged knee
smelled it on the air
watched the clouds with
knowing atici…………pation
winter was coming
and its brutishness
would not easily go unnoticed  --
the steady preparatory ant
the fattened bear
thick with salmon grease
and sedge grass
ole man Barkley
splittin’ cord wood
dark brown chew spit
trickling from the corner of his
downturned mouth…
and the migrating geese –
my skin prickles at the air
and the visions of the season to come
holiday meals and family gatherings
cooking and sharing
little rolling hills for sledding
trimming a tree
in the cozy warmth
of our country home –

I think of love as a small home
With furniture well-used
And the clutter of life
And the smell of fresh food.

I think of love as a silouhette
In the dark of night
And whispered words
That ring true in daylight.

I think of love as long silences
Broken by the turn of a page
And loud, simple contact
And losing track of hours and days.


I think of love as a furrowed brow
As an angry shout and a sharp word
And a fist strinking out
And hurt, hurt, hurt.

I think of love as broken promises
And vitriolic, secret thoughts
And discontent never to be voiced
And doors that never unlock.

I think of love as a gilded cage
And a small bird that will never get away.
I think of love as predators and prey
I think of love as vulnerability.


I think of love as a downturned head
And silent submission
And an authoratative stance
And the will to listen.

I think of love as the catalysm's calm
As a word in a hurricane
That stops a million, million thoughts
And halts a crashing train.

I think of love as a private comfort
And rare affection
And overwheleming pride
And jealous admiration.


I think of love.

Here is a little girl
With dark lashes
And eight-looped braids
Her limbs as
Thin and white as bone
She’s shivering in the cold
Of her thoughts a
surging, raging ocean, a dark horse.
Her face downturned violently,
As if she had no neck,
She swings with the breeze of
A thousand cold breaths
Her breast cold, as if
She hadn’t any heartbeat.

Here hangs a little girl
The subject of damnation by
A hundred harsh thoughts,
A thousand cold shoulders,
And the godless hell in which she resided.

I've never actually felt this way before
But now for the first time I feel used
Text at midnight unassuming
Just enough to make me smile
You used me
Just enough to make you sleep all the better
While I lay awake knowing that I've been used but still kinda thinking that you maybe care
I'm only sixteen
Still young
Am I as mature as I'm told I'm supposed to be
Because I sure as hell feel like an idiot now

With my downturned eyes
And celebrity skin
I feel a little Lo

We called ourselves a gang
when we gathered,
these Missouri poets
and I.

We were the same,
yet starkly contrasted
nonetheless.

They wrote of daybreak,
meadows full of mist,
thickets of mule deer
appearing at first light
or
rabbits snared, squealing
in tangles of hawthorn.

I could not;
did not do
the same.

Instead, choosing
to squint in the shadows
of barrooms or truck stops,

I became the raconteur
for a different type of wildlife.

My heavens were full
of angels whose halos
were made of cigarette smoke
as it circled toward dim ceilings

or

bright neon rooms that sizzled
and popped with the scents
of bacon, eggs, and brewed
coffee in Bunn flasks,
waiting for the pour.

Today, as I begin my 43rd,
it is much the same as it
has always been.

But, there is one angel,
who is celestially sorrowful.

Her melancholy is thought
to be total until,
my storyteller’s eye is better
educated by my ears.

The jukebox has played
lost love’s anthems since
breakfast began.

Her head has shaken
a negative with each song’s
passing.

Her downturned mouth
and sleepy eyes are
actually awake, painfully
aware of the feelings
locked inside of each
and every lyric.

She hasn’t told me any
stories of disappointment
with her station in life.

Instead,
she has shared
the complexity of her empathy,
the breadth and depth of
her heart’s ache for love
lost, even if it’s not her
own.

She owns it.

Singing in silence,
feeling out loud.

A rabbit snared
in a tangle of hawthorn.

The dawn has broken on
The 43rd anniversary of my birth.

The day’s first gifts are received…

A belly full of food,
a story,
love songs
sung with an ache
I’ll carry for a while.

I trap a $5 under the salt shaker
and exit.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018