Given Up

That Saturday morning Dad went to rest
forever on his old bed
and that old mattress,
I was in the kitchen
cleaning the waffle iron.
It wasn’t as much a mess
As I was when I learned too late
He’d Gone

The heat of the Tucson sun
blasted through the dining window
scattering to the walls from the chandelier
turning the room into a frightening scene
of fleeing spirits rising
like lava lamp ghosts,
invisibly higher
and I wondered if the sun
could just be a crystal in
a bigger chandelier;
another light source behind it.

I cried in the closet that day
with the Samurai sword, old leather jacket,
boxing glove, and bowling ball.
The grief took me too hard
to realize that I now had to find homes
for all these orphaned possessions,
But not hard enough to realize
I would never find
home for myself again.

Advertisements
Published in: on December 13, 2015 at 1:39 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , , , ,

Shearing Skin

I had lost all hope
I was a fixture
a figment
a ligament contracted
in fists and fits
a misfit unfit
for fitting in
shearing skin
falsely thinking it let them in
 
 
Too grave to give
And given in
Gape gowned to the ghost
I gave way in ghastly grins
It sadly seeps and sways
In sweeps and says
“The cloth that hangs
Is wearing thin”
 
The naked haunt
Who has my heart
He harped and harked
Into the dark
So, to fall I followed
The invisible hollow
That fallow fellow
I met at my pillow
To pluck the plantation
Of flesh-cotton sorrow
 
No sheep can spin
That ripened skin
The fluffs of buff
I’ve given him
And gauged the girth
Of all his grim
On graveyard shifts
At the cotton gin
 
Of my frightly frocks
He dawned at dusk
I hemmed and hawed
“He has a husk!”
Hushed and hidden
Till head hits hay,
He woke me as I slipped away
 
Although remained in his remains
He reaps with me, now
In the rags of wraiths
And raves in tones of razor blades
Too visible to vanish
and too vanquished to be vain
 
We traipse along
the brim of night
showing our skin
Our dark burning bright
And haunt the fringe
of flocks in flight
 
and frighten the fowl
with hues and howls
how we flash and flaunt
our cacophonous cowls
and dive back to the morn’s burning sun
with jaundice yellow yowls
and our skin undone
 
Each midnight I mend
The shredded shroud
and cackle as I count it down
My hope, it seems
In seams, so soft
Are cloaks where I’m
no longer lost.
Published in: on May 5, 2014 at 12:26 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Addiction

Our congenital ghosts,

those haunting habits,

permeating every drop of DNA,

sprinkled with the crumbs

of our ancestor’s sins,

are difficult to cleave,

could make us bleed

centuries all at once.

Carving it out

is as immense a task

as retrieving past breaths

fooling death,

and choking elusive phantoms.

These family trees

with gilded limbs,

are wrought in cancerous desire,

bound in wires

mere mortals strive to prune.

Changing the course of fate

is a futile feat

but I’ve seen great men beat

these invisible wraiths.

To strangle an unseen foe

proves an eidolon from a hero.

I know there is power in you;

enough acid

creeping through your veins

to erase the possession,

and etch lessons,

you will never forget.

Published in: on December 27, 2011 at 12:37 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , ,
%d bloggers like this: