Had I Known

Had I known this would have been our last embrace.
Would I have given more than I take.
I summon up that specter steeple.
As well as, that rare smile that graced your face.
Even now,
I ask the hereafter, with quiet reservation,
who does not falter?

Ominous choices of two forks in the road.
‘No, you did all you could.
How were you to know.
She always likened herself to beauty being bold.’

Those were the days of romantic sobriety.
Young love in tarnished hands.
A reckoning of waters,
so still they moved.
I moved.
You moved.

I am perpetually swayed back to that secular summer place…
with the worshipers in the sun’s face.
The only thing I knew to do was offer a way to leave.
Proposing a week’s reprieve.

Seven days.
It moved me.
It moved you.
And,
at the time,

that was the best that we could do.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

Tracing the Formica

Boscawen NH

The Formica traced a trail of ruddy tears…to an unnamed room.

Deep inside the tomb…

my oblique glasses held visions of dull switch blades.

Daggers dancing through the corners of my soul like,

bloody sugar canes sent to alleviate my decay.

Sliding between the ceramic maze…

a hell to be razed.

Alas, the vow,

little do your tiny demons know,

it was written long ago,

upon a wall made of cork…

‘straight jackets cannot subdue the heart.’

Dark Room

misconduct-5

He had an eye for these things.

But I had the soul.

The art of the moment, wasted with lies.

With all the chatter of aperture and metered light.

Exposures in a dark room.

You, looking for that idyllic covered bridge.

Me, searching for meaning to the words, ‘just live.’

As your dark room comes into contrast with my life.

The question still remains,

‘what of the devil you tried to tame?’

With a generation, come and gone,

I will right your wrong.

Teacher,

with all your attempts to school me…

All your photographed Rockwell ideology…

The shuttering speed of Americana.

All this and more, such great expectations.

Not a single tutored self-portrait.

Yet,

a guild full of

artistic misconduct.

Bullet and Flower

So, I am impolite

I am polite.

As father was with, an open clenched kitten’s paw.

Honed to strength of aged claw.

OUR only diagnosis a home where the fishy scales dry…warm and raw

Both my father and I…a seamstress, a tailor with a dull needle. 

Tethered together…venomous spelunkers in a  dry well.

Scratched in tongues so wide and red. 

OUR bloodline canvasses a coyote grey and turquoise blue. aligned to the crimson lies we tell….

From outside a generation’s thought tanned knuckles, rosebud cheek, thorny wishes down a wishing well.

From outside a generation’s thought, I lay in a casket made of crib ribbons and no pillow for my head.

And, my mother’s resourcefulness vows to lay with the dead.

Fractured Like Me

Angry tears rain upon abandon houses.

It is here comfort feels at home…most.

Ghastly stairwells replace stubbed toes.

Eerie bulkheads surrounded with infected weeds replaced by the belt and the knee.

Heroic crosses dressed in blood replaced by screams louder than nothingness.

What is not replaced…

The uneven sunrises and the awkward sunsets.

Cannot you see,

‘they are fractured just like me.’

Fragments and figments of is left…

these are the buildings…

these are the visions…

that understand me best.