just a downslide when no hills exist
a deep troubling ending
for a life never begun.
I visit the oven’s open mouth
more often than not
Sylvia’s got nothing on me
I the deflated ball she never bounced.
Coward I bounce to a dead mirror
I’ve knotted the rope
but my hands disobey my heart
my mind forever tortured echoing coward.
Do you remember the days we ran together
those days bruised knees strong legs
those days kissing behind your cabin
hearts pounding love engorged?
Your lips cherry strawberry and holly
I pale boy waited outside mouse quiet
you run slipping on maple wings
embracing you say forever love.
Forever what’s that?
we parted in sadness and hope
forward reality caught our souls
in the wars our father fought.
Ignorance blew our minds
a mottled ocean separated us
bullets flew through the green thickets
my first birth a baptism of fire.
Hail to the chief. We have no chief.
Time for the apocalypse I say.
We can’t says a chorus of faded faces
We need a chief before we declare an end
to blood, sweat, tears, and ninety-nine bottles of beer.
So bring on the Agent Orange and burn Seattle,
albuquerque, and Chicago, bring on the brown shirts.
Hell the world can’t end without brown shirts.
Faces fade more and more, voices mere mouthings.
You declare the Orange man to be Jesus.
Jesus and Charlie Manson declared Marilyn
bass guitarist, Juan to fill
while Jesus takes a full walk across Salt Lake City.
Wings touched the flame with just a whisper.
The moth falls and fails to fly again.
We are the moths who live our lives
as far from the heat as possible.
The tax man comes and we are burned
yet like a mad Geppetto we build more wings.
Watching you towelling,
my smile shot my neck a crick or two.
Our relaxation invigorating
as you softly touched my chin,
a kiss I needed, we both needed
like a redbud needs a daily drink.
Seems my breath is heavier nowadays,
winter may come early.
Touch me softly but not briefly, time is
not on my side anymore, enemy of the state
you bastard. Strip me of my leaves, leave
me to die against a backdrop of angel snow.
Sometimes I like to close my eyes,
listen to the busyness of crows.
They speak in urgent tones.
I don’t know why.
At night a murder of them
try to stay quiet but the urgency remains
in groanings and sour hushes, beaks tight.
I listen when I can, you see crows are like us,
urgently mad yet hiding from night to night.
I can’t dance. I would if I could beneath the crows
just to say to them I’m like you but I cannot fly.
Someday I will.
I died on the battlefield,
a simple affair you see.
No taps were played,
no triangulated flag.
Not a normal death of course
just a mind thing
like closing a coffin door
inside my head.
Sounds of bombs and rockets
muted then silenced
soldiers’ lips mouthing screams,
I was frozen like winter grass
They brought me home
full honors with a six-pack salute.
I’m planted now beneath a window,
a tree growing
in our living room
I love when they water me.
My grandson pees on me,
occasionally the dog.
My days are surely numbered
leaves are falling from my arms.
Sadly sifting through an hourglass
watching grains of life escape
brown eyes clashed with sand
the old man smoked
sensing the air about him
close by a forest creature filled
the copse with smells of dangerous
odors like urine, feces, and semen.
His hands trembled lightly like twigs
beneath a vulture’s claws,
he unlocked his island heart carefully
and placed a bullet there.
Without assemblage I hid in a stall.
It’s a place some men go to cry,
Why am I crying? You tell me.
Sometimes it just happens like a firefly
slowly dodging the big things in its life.
Guys like me do that too. We dodge.
We fear the big people in our lives. Though,
we fear the small things, but now I’m crying
because I’m dying, my heart’s been clubbed.
Selfish me, crying for myself. Not true my love.
I cry for us. We came as a pair
I stared with curiosity as your eyes died.
Those viscous black marbles once full of war,
now stare at a wall many before you examined.
Jesus is coming someone tried to comfort too late.
It is easy to say you’re going somewhere mighty fine,
you’re finally going to cross that eternal line.
Someone please tell me how it is you say
the return trip much than the first, only sounds
of locomotives, diesel trucks, and ambulances
return a blankness so many of us are afraid is truth.