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.’
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.
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.
a guild full of
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.
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.
The screams would never jostle me awake.
Loud torrents of torment would lull me to sleep.
Mind over matter came with no consistency.
Games of pretend came and went…offering little tranquility.
My bed became a soft rock…providing little cover.
Wild words…a free for all.
Enough so that…I could understand the blues.