Neglectful Owner

These trials of worthiness,

remarkable or not…

are plain as day…nonetheless.

If it were a drug the shaking less intense.

Feelings like a neglectful owner to common sense.

Normally a good runaway…would be

in order.

Yet, the sneakers have gone since I put the blotter away.

Flashbacks of embryos on the floor.

With hatred always wanting more.

Pictures of sepia images bought with the beat of a leather strap.

All and none of the above, correct answers.

With the questions being all wrong…

a fifty year old swan song.

Memories of My Brother

I do not want to think of him.

Though…I do.

The brother I once knew.

Born an old man.

He had been more than my father could stand.

His persona…

Larger than a vat of well stirred anger.

Hope never surrounded him.

Love, seemed a danger.

Even now,

alive…but his breathing unwell.

I think of him in a past tense.

Like a folklore I should tell.

On a mid summer’s day.

Rare, relinquished thoughts.

Broken windows.

Shattered buildings.

Five second memories of my brother.

An abandoned lot that time forgot.

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Vanishing in 89

Vanishing back in ’89

Casualties of ’89

A conductor’s timepiece…

doing time

A clockwork of technicolor breakdowns

And, races to the finish smeared with red tape

Cheers of holding on, discoveries that came much too late..

Vanishing in ’89

Family values of a primitive kind

No matter how white the snow may currently be

it has no choice to soil itself down

It is in the deficient nature of the beast

Running down in ’89

With no importance of the finish line

Can a new reality be forged

Can we allow tainted walls closer to

the heart…

Can yesterday beckon a seasoned start

Vanishing and gone… back in ’89

Closer, closer, closer to fine

No matter how secluded those that were dear

No matter how sequestered they appear

Beastly bones are nothing more than a…

Handed down meaningless antique

Vanishing in ’89

I wonder back to the screeching night

and

where to draw the darkest of fine lines

Be chivalrously autonomic

Being intimately private to true bone

Being in internal love, one but not alone

this Old House

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.”

Pine and Oak

I look and lock down these stairs to the catacombs.

I understand as a stumble, there will never be freedom.

The intertwined pine and oak…lamented before me alludes to a place ‘never to be.’

Hatred and swinging leather belts.

Love mixed with skin pelts.

I write shortly of incidents others have felt.

Thus, I donate my life to disrepair.

To tiled and titled adults without a care.

Tell me now,

how polyester made life light?

Why the campfire of want…became hell?