Misty-Eyed

Wide as the ring of a bell,
gone all star white,
small as a wish in a well.

Iron & Wine | Sodom, South Georgia

Will you sing to me when I’m gone?

The moon gathers those wispy clouds around her tonight. She might be cold. She could be lonely. Probably in need of company. Her fleeting friends dance around her in slow motion, the delicate and fickle creatures.

My days have been warm and anxious, my nights cool and fulfilling. I’ve let things go, let them fly up and into the dark skies, spreading through all the pines. I’m here in my body at last, in agreement with my thoughts.

Wednesday marks the 18th year since you died. I’ll be at the manse on the hill to whisper simple words to your memory and bid you another peaceful year of happiness, wherever you are. I’ll walk through the grand entrance with a straight back, into the hall of candles and statues, up the hill to your place of rest and there I’ll shrink back into my 13-year-old self.

It’s fine. Tomorrow is a new day.

Loverboy

Neon streams of light dance around me as I enter the Room of Wonders. The spectrum of color moves in all directions as voices fade in and out of earshot. Shadows glide across the velvet space to a counter embellished with sparkling chains, like makeshift humans gravitating toward an open bar. Every creature is occupied by the roving screens in front of them. They concentrate in dumbfounded awe. My party of ghouls disperse into this transcendent room and disappear altogether. Tonight is their night to make a killing. Before I join the fray, my pocket machine pings. Transmission received from unknown sender. “I love you,” the message reads. My mind reels. What words to utter in this place of marquees and dreams. I’m peeved. My anger rises. Those words don’t belong in this place. They don’t belong to me.

Poplar

Dear Ghost:

Give me your origin of reverie,
your unwavering spirit of belief,
your monsters of old treachery,
the sand you hide beneath the blighted sun,
I have searched long for your ways,
lost as I am time and again,
in this layered state of chaotic order.

Offender

Tick, tick, tick. This time, it’s right. Finally right. The quietness of a moment is all I need. My mind clears. The roads are clear. I can move on without my wheels. The tireless rush of blood to my head stops for a moment of oxygen, good enough to subdue my senses and bring me home. I don’t need to be more than I am, no more than my heavy skin and bones. What’s a life worth these days? I owe everyone nothing but the generosity of a night’s closing. The moon ahead guides me to the intersection of revelatory two way lanes and layered synthetic melodies. Let me run headlong into the cave of wonders.

Linen

I’m older now,
I know too much of what’s not there,
I’ve come and gone in the blink of an eye,
I run like the wind,
the wind of a well-oiled machine,
I think I know my desires,
I know my fears,
I act on these fears,
I’m hindered by my ghosts,
I cave into myself with age,
because I no longer believe in us,
I don’t believe the world is mine,
I see that everything hurts me,
so I fold into my thoughts,
I slink away and into the corner,
but I was grand once,
I closed my eyes and let you lead me,
I held my breath and jumped into the sea,
I was invincible and spectacular,
it was all before the long storm,
the call of the taming,
the inevitibility of growing up.

Weirdo

I see the way the eyes betray the assertion,
the way the truth swirls like thick smoke in the core of the retinas.
I can hide much fiction without difficulty,
but the eyes, they betray me every time.
I see the way they look at me, these old eyes,
the weight of their stare,
and how deeply they feel for me.
They apologize to me, out of reverent pity.
These eyes grasp the gravity of the situation they have created,
and they know the depth of their actions.
They see how ill-equipped I am for this world,
how woefully exposed I am to the dangers that be,
how my state of being could change in an instant.
They are my creator, these aging eyes,
they are the eyes that bought me into the world,
and they are the eyes that see who I have become for it.

Compost

We are the children of great men,
men who have elevated their people to insurmountable heights,
men who have built a microcosm of comfort and decadence.

Our forefathers have concluded that civilized society can exist when it is removed from its grisly origins,
entire lives can be lived in luxurious underdevelopment,
a second and third thought never needing to be spared.

We spring forth as the denizens of this grand society,
reaping the uncompromising spoils of our day and age,
privilege that has been rooted in blood and suffering and fire.

This fortuitous circle of life continues for you and I,
as those darkened faces remain at the bottom of the barrel,
for they are the inevitable byproduct of the unforgiving lives we lead.

We are stained with their blood,
we have drunk the tainted water for the entirety of our short and misleading existence,
and we will go on never knowing.

But still, what of those others, the ones we have left out to die?
The ones who will be forgotten and overshadowed by more applicable tragedies?
Will someone unearth their suffering from the malnourished ground lest we, their great saviors and executioners, forget them one day?