Before the Night Becomes Cold

There was a tomboy…her head filled with doubt.

I see her everytime a screendoor slams.

I offer her vacant lot praises.

Whatever the effort put forward…my help is never wanted…

it is in the manner in which she stands.

In many ways, she and I are one.

Running, hobbling into a fiery orange ball of sun.

Using our play money to pay back all who climbed the paneling…

To all who disappeared to soon.

This rough and tumble, wild and wooly, soul, I grab her at night when does not do as told.

With rustic hands and solemn grace…I attempt to wrap her in flannel before the night becomes too cold.

Home, Hostile, Home

Home!

Funny, odd, queer, with its anger.

Ham fist-ed jokes never given in moderation.

Games of…

monopoly…no dice.

Frisbee’s tight lipped and tainted black for playing at night.

Puns? A lead pipe to encourage all players to…think twice

The, I Was Only Joking, trophy, next to Home, Sweet, Home, place-mats, to adorn the holes in the wall.

Mad Jester, the biggest joker of us all.

Pastime of full contact Slap Jack.

Paperbacks left in the rain.

Simon Says, it is a never ending riddle.

Wisecracking those who wish to remain sane.

Mother Melancholia

Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome

(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)

Generation Catacomb!

WE utter tumors of blood.

For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains

It was there I had seen him first.  An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.

 

Than…

Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold.  Obliging, as a casserole.  She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.

Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.

Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.

Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.

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I protest to this embankment,

The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!

No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed.  No matter the vials for your smiles.  A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon.  Crimson waters will punish your passageway.

..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.

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barefoot pallbearer

vanishing a toe into the surface waters

I have reached another plane

coming-to, from this a fitful union

a cow…feasting upon hay

nothing but a nervous, deliberate, ploy

constant combat towards dreamy imps

who exploit any attempts at joy

I allot to carry slurping, acidic, pails of tears until the willingness comes

or

until I am turned from friend to foe

I am not the water girl for original sin

nor a sorceress with chimes of time to ring

just a nervous barefoot pallbearer…

mistakenly trying to soak up the other side

 

 

a Bridge too Close

He knew of the nature of seed.

He knew not of the nature of others.

The pining echoes.

Traversing nearby hollows.

Winter berries that please.

Winter berries which impede.

He understood rugged instinct.

What a world to master as a, young man?

Cold thick waters…

a laundry

or

a bath?

He learned to feed the fire.

While…

He accepted little of fire’s desire.