What vermin lie molting
in recessed corners; layered,
aging cloth, rusty sabres?
Doors unlock to parade
apparitions thought dead-dust.
Howling persists behind locked doors;
awaiting that day the dead-bolt lives.
How many more doors?
How many piles? Fleeting faces of phallic
frenzy; faded visages brandishing shame?
How many awakenings?
The past lives through a rear-view mirror.
Black & white
Within my head.
I tried hanging
My hat upon
That failed me;
Hold the weight
Of the contents
I hate ceilings,
doors and walls.
I hate confinement;
I am outraged
To be bound
Place and penury.
I aspire to ascend
Beyond the level of
These intrusive villains;
Above that which
Denies me wings.
Invisible birds chirp at night. Trains which passed by in 1877 re-established
their schedules. Cruise ships leave from land-locked terrain, blowing their
distant foghorns. Nightsong is always played in doleful notes before dawn.
I wanted to leave violet snapdragons. Sprays of vibrant profusion in my wake;
blood-red roses with thorns that prick, wound as a reminder that life is never
a given. Once it is given , it is to be lived well.
At high noon the sun was darkened for a showdown. The hombre in his
perennial black hat was gunning for me. I didn’t strap-up. The air was crisp.
Barely-there snow flakes floated, bells fell silent with deafening clarity.
They will carry me away in an unmarked box. Cursory grief will grave-
gallop. My ashes will cyclone, then, settle upon wafts of waiting wind.
Buttercup-yellow fields, emerald-green grasses await my passage. I will
make my winding way down to the river’s edge.. My going home will be
sweeter than the smell of a freshly-powdered newborn’s bottom.