Lying and Dying

There are lines to this scarcity.

Hidden obstacles filled with joyless doubt.

Now that I am in…the dead air is coming out!

A covert world we all must go thru…

and, the question remains…

‘Will I have the courage to go without you?’

The grass beaded with dew and the…aromatic earth…

does not quench my soul as it used to.

Lying and dying have become art forms.

A certain style giving unto…laughing…crying.

Courage in the blinding light of day can whisk the unthinkable webs away.

Nonetheless, the night…with its sporadic fits of sleep…

Still begs for valor’s retreat.

Wonder Woman’s Eraser

the blinds of my mind…lilt

a storied plot of disconnect and bad vertical holds fresh with scant static

I interviewed, repeatedly…the main character on merits

on fishbowl houses

and

smiling goldfish with one shoe

I keep coming back to these indoor graveyards

scrutinizing testimonials  from dead poets

at graffiti’s basement of cheap thrills

stirring up banshee’s with last centuries news

I have lit this vigilant firecracker so often just to watch it explode

someone else

anyone else

would have taken a powder by now

but this actor, this skinny cow reminds me

overturned stones eventually turn cold

I will come back at least three times more

first, with a left hand cane to pry open all the good that remains

second, with a stronger back to carry a weighty blind frog

third, with Wonder Woman’s eraser to remove my name

Paltry Antidotes

As if, discovered slightly crooked, within its place, an apprehension.

Eggshells in false forests

children milling about unharmed by squatters,

resin ovals hung on limbs yet to be formed,

and…

crosses piercing the soggy bottom turf, of what used to be.

With this dust, resolutions fade, speck by contemplative speck.

Sometimes I am pushed, stubbornly, to loose sight of…auld lang syne

Sometimes blanketed by here and there…

Often I awaken to missing a mother’s guiding a hand…

a gesture of charity, debilitated or reflectively sublime.

Once upon a village, swaddled in quilts of yesteryear…

Once an angel with spurs

A voice only the living could hear.

Soon to be a blackout doused by fabricated flowers.

A small holiday growing smaller…as the future appears.

Complete, paltry entombed antidotes…consigned by my greatest fear.

Each one an affection for weariness

an invisible affliction

all among the petunias that had crimsoned your cheeks…so near.

 

 

 

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

 

 

the Edge of Holding On

At the  ledge of reason, the edge of holding onto ‘the grudge.’

Of course, I am off course.

With every step a labored, misty, breath.

In the corners of never-land, I hear other survivors.

The grudge is not alone.

Each one speaking…

I do not know much but where misery goes,,,

the Grudge will also be.