Homecoming

This predilection

to malediction

diseases, such as these, if it pleases:

mad cow

hog cough

chickensick

 

bold wives tales

in old folks’ tomes

three, the number

of your destiny.

wishes, fishes,

cowboy creamer

spoons and dishes.

 

the prophecy

naught but a fallacy

whispered in the wings

over moonshine

and dandelion wine

in our cups

under the table.

 

the forest council

all but forgotten

spun from straw

the golden fleece

fooled, pulled

the wool over our eyes

thrown

to the wolves in sheep’s clothing

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‘tis only right,

but we ain’t got time

for a proper burial.

 

Even a cairn

of unbridled possibility

stacking up to cover up

bodies

we pray you’ll never have to see.

 

We don’t want no animals

poking ‘round the remains.

The scent of fresh blood on the air

will drive ‘em down the valley

…and we want to be long gone by the time they get here. 

WORTH

shuttled through the tunnels

like so much spoiled meat

snuffling and a’snarling

this beast upon two feet

 

Minotaurian presence

half-man, the body shared

double the size of mere mortals

if anyone dared care

 

he had no strings to tie him down

or keep him on the path

this city was a festering sore

‘twas dim, and dank, and daft

 

it was another of their tests

the smarmy, grim cabal

gave no twine or map, no lights down here

as he felt along tepid tiled walls

 

cast about into the depths

naught much more than thoughts

how it was he got this far

how much he had lost

 

find his way somehow, he would

these subways built to last

also ran quite systematic

he’d be out before much time had passed

Labor Day of Love

I meet you at the top of the drive as you pull in.

Three hours past due, Labor Day leftovers lukewarm.

Your music blaring

glaring

but for the exception

that it’s Yanni

and I can’t help but wonder

how that would be mildly offensive

in the least.

 

We talk briefly of your weekend at the casino.

You saw him in concert,

entering through the back

where the spectators come in

playing instruments he’d had

since he was in high school.

Sixty-one now, just a few years younger

than you, you can’t imagine

how he can go on like that

three songs straight

standing on a chair.

You watched 

mere feet away from him,

you gave him a thumbs-up

and he winked in return,

continuing to play.

 

We talk of your girlfriend

(how long you’ve been together

I can’t fathom.)

She’s in the Meadows again.

It was all your fault.

You had a bad day at work.

Doing 83 in the company truck,

the police didn’t catch you,

but the higher-ups at the company did:

you’ve been written up.

Again.

Dinner was ready when you got home

she’s good like that.

You couldn’t help but bring your work home,

and be angry at her for no reason.

You yelled.

You can’t remember what you said,

but it wasn’t nice.

Tuesday, she said she was ready to go in.

Wednesday, she called the cops, and even though

she asked to go, they wouldn’t take her.

Thursday, they never came.

Friday, two staties and a local boy

picked her up. She went along willingly.

No fight left in her.

You saw her today:

she could barely keep her eyes open,

her head down the entire time,

not remembering what she had for lunch

or if she had even had it,

hands

like ice in cold, cold water

trying to revive someone,

or cold enough to take out a kidney,

or a heart, which you already had.

The Man Who Knows

shuttled through tunnels

like so much spoiled meat

snuffling and a-snarling

the beast upon two feet

 

Minotaurian presence

half-man the body shared

double the size of normal men

if anyone dare care

 

he had no strings to tie him down

or keep him on the path

this city was a festering sore

’twas dim and dark and draft

 

it was another of their tests

this smarmy grim cabal

no twine, no map, no lights down here

felt along tepid tiled walls

Tilting at Propellers

20170508_134135

traveling back and forth

between the people that i love

not knowing where i belong any longer

no signs from above or

below

and it would mean the world to me

as to where I’m meant to be

I’d like to know

 

the sun goes down

and the clouds roll in

it’s getting dark now

could this be the end?

rain begins to fall

it comes down in sheets

when ever will the sun shine again

and show its face to me?

these wings lift me higher and higher

farther and farther off the ground

I can’t seem to say a word

from me there is no sound

Big Adventure (NaPoWriMo17 10/30)

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Cruising with the top down

shotgun

to escaped con

showing what the rebel is,

still getting the work done.

Yet two,

count ’em, two,

distinct threads

that have unraveled

while working another angle,

and though I look my best in this here dress,

it’s all just a smokescreen

the disguise from which

I hide my eyes, the authorities,

and those carefully woven lies.

Taking pictures won’t make it last.

So on to the next charade.

 

Patching up other things

loves, lives,

tires on a bike

that lay within the basement

of the Alamo.

A fight for independence

from studio execs

my kids demanding:

 

“ACTION!”

 

when I’m always forgetting my lines.

 

Yet, I’ll always come in swinging,

run into that burning building for you

even with the threat of snakes

consequences be damned.

Quirk Hollow (NaPoWriMo17 2/30)

Sleepy little burg

that isn’t on any map, you

can’t get to it from here

and were traveling back

is the only way forward.

 

Population varies

dependent on how the light

catches, the facets

of my star-studded personality

in the dark.

 

Ringing hollow in here

echoing off walls that won’t release

us. There is an emptiness

I cannot grasp.

Yet it reaches out to me