Poem: Dusty

I’ve never been real, I realized

too late, soul sucked, plastered flat,

surveying that this isn’t a game

anymore over and again, eyes on the horizon

thrust over, into and through, hear the birds

shriek of desperation, each call vital

audible survival, haunting hopelessness, for some

know doubt, starving in winter dusk

on a tree branch, desperate, looking without

seeing for hours, miles and ages.

 

Now to acquaint myself

with the truth, I will seize all the records

of those that came before, much may be

tattered bloody, waving lightly, wafting

breezy, whispering war

over candlelight, dim dusky deep dwellers,

loving the musk, drinking blood straight

from the source, of suffering springs a new

hope, so warrantless.

 

It seems, so anyway I am waking up

tomorrow again, next factorial stepladder

struggle of days, until it becomes life

which is death, always, we know this

don’t we?

Poem: Dusty

Poem: Mice and Men

“Transform,” said the old man in the boat

forever unsatisfied, he voyaged a venture

without end, staring blankness at itself, pondering

mysteries infinitely varied, reaching solutions

invisibly weightless, he studied all his life to learn

idioms are disguises, nothing more, like words

unearth odium daily, feelings blinding reason

preserve themselves in amber, “transform.”

 

His hair was reedy charcoal, his eyes were dreary

sunsets cloudless, he wondered aloud to himself

what he would become, bear flamingo and aardvark

were all possibilities, answers to the question

unknown material cipher, the solution at hand

hammer pulling and raised, “On the count of three”

he said to his dead relatives, “One” then “two”

before stopping to stare, at nothing plainly.

 

He sighed and sat back, erect by his elbows

planted in wooden boat bottom, the barrel snug

under his jaw, “three” was the call through tears

bloody thick mist, click arise from a catch

without gunpowder, struggle the fist sharp

through his thigh, cool it from there say “tomorrow”

grabbing the oars, spit over the side, pause

knowing there’s nothing, no promises kept.

Poem: Mice and Men