Freedom…Just another word for nothing left to lose.
-J.Joplin
Freedom…Just another word for nothing left to lose.
-J.Joplin
Which form of abuse is to your liking?
Why?
You say….
The choice never had been yours
to make anyway…
Though it had always been your voice at stake
Just another orgasm faked…
Choices, options, delusions of narcissistic grandeur…
Why not a familiar bent take on beat her down pleasure?
They all say twice more than what they hear
Guardians of hand-me-down fear.
Everyday serving up a family owned tactile recipes
Everyday reminders turned mystery thrillers.
Everyday the salts that eat the pillars.
This old house has seen it all before. The rummaging of angst…The backdoor horrors…
Three crows circling the unkempt gardens, pecking orders for the leftovers.
Descending much like beggars to pennies upon the floor.
This old house…closed for repairs…missing steps in the stairs.
Leaking self depreciating humor…encased in toxic rumor.
This old house…if only you had known sooner.
A foundation built on Christ.
Dining in prayer with the Father and a roll of the dice.
‘Come home.’
I shall tell you now.
I shall tell you now…
what all these years…
you have missed.
“Nail and frail and lying low. A legacy cast no shadow. For it must have not just shape and form, but contempt for danger…or, it only lay shallow.”
“Occasionally, we have to take care of those who once…took care of us. Often leaving, the participants, stuck between wonder-lust and antiquated mistrust.”
I wonder if you had been frightened staring down the barrel of a dark tunnel
Now and again, I sneak a peak to where you have gone
I grance and wonder
had the bleak scope made an impact
Did you understand where you stood
had those faint and painful smiles been a matter of what we have always done?
Lying there with your god and your rosaries had there been relief or repentence?
Tunnels have a way of squeezing out the memories
Memories, so long over looked.
In the end of your travels could you stop worrying about that which has not happened yet?
I thought like you…I had been raised to
Not once did the light at the end of the tunnel open up to anything new
Glancing up and around, and threw, as you did, could there ever be all that you wanted to do
A memory jogged itself free.
It had been Cedar Wood Court…
a family of flashes absconded with the longest day of the year.
You are after all, old Irish, dear.
The hide and seek…whiskey laced
A game of our Father falling from grace.
Cedars lined in a suburban roe
a piece of country amongst
urban down-low.
An isle of make believe
A day trip tuned in to…
indignant baritones housed in Mother’s shoe.
Loaded guns, stolen Winston’s and relapse debris…
Hangin’ from the memories of Cedar trees.
One for you
Two for me.
Walkin’ the dog, climbing the trees…
Cedar Wood court…
Wooded asphalt
Childish, isn’t it?
To want to believe.
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