Friday, January 16, 2015

16 January 2015

Last night
when the carousel was all lights and music
the horses were wild and just about
to break free
your sensibilities were stretched
and what was wanted seemed the same as what was needed
for once.
This morning
when everything has snapped back
the horses are made of wood
and it's not just that the words are different
but the sound of the words
the sound of no words
is not the same
and you don't know if it will hurt less
to chase it
or ignore it
or bury it with full military honors
so that when they hand you the folded up triangle flag
you can stand there blinking back tears for a few moments
and no one will think it's unusual.

Friday, December 12, 2014

12 December 2014

You got tricked
because it was safe
and in the back, something shiny.
You reached as far as you could
folding your wings
to climb part way in
to get that little bit more.
That's when you heard the door being closed
and you managed to thrust one hand
back in time
to lose three fingernails
before the spindle rammed through the wheels
and everything went dark.

I didn't know if I could
forget the numbers
- or those little red eyes
so I defaced the dial
with a screwdriver
so everyone would be safe.

But I got lonely
and looking at those three fingernails on the floor
just gave me a pain in the stomach.
After dark, voices
Wisps of air on my face from their wings
around and around me
and I wondered if you were safe.

Halved with regret
I keep spinning that battered dial
left right left
listening for the notches to line up
listening for a sign of life
waiting to feel safe again.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

7 October 2014

The road - dark and wet
the sparklers fizzing out
before they ever really had a chance
to make it the way
it should have been.
Long past the sound of boot heels on asphalt
you rested your aching head
but the road didn't notice
or curl its fingers around your brow
the way you were hoping.

Just do one thing -
just keep going.

Clouds draped over the moon's cage
for the night
disbanded stars
glinting in the road
showing you the way
it still could be
the way you were hoping
when you smashed the glass
that said EMERGENCY.

Every step now takes a year
and you are certain there are only seconds left
and the road
just does the one thing.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

30 September 2014

Every drop of rain
standing on the ledge of the storm cloud
wind whipping through their hair
one trembling hand gripping the window frame
the other hanging limp
burned eyes misted over
obscuring where the ledge ends
and tragedy begins.

Thunder and lightning begin to chant,
while the cloud chokes out a whispered,
before everything falls apart.

Friday, September 26, 2014

26 September 2014

I never asked you about that scar
mostly because I knew exactly what happened
and who was to blame
but also because I'd heard you
tell lies about it so many times
I wasn't sure if you remembered the truth anymore
and I didn't want to be the one
to remind you.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

24 September 2014

Swirling in a glass
taking odds on being drunk
or spilled
or poured back.

Sparking the flint
wanting to be held in that perfect moment
before everything burns.

Lingering over the cinders
asking the vanishing glow
to come back.

Lying across the tracks
waiting for resolve or regret
or a train
to show.

I guess they don't
call it The Witching Hour
for nothing.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

11 September 2014

I remember nothing.
It's my only defense.
I don't want my memory jogged.
I want my memory dragged
out of his safe place
claws scrabbling at the felt
delivered shellshocked into the street.
I want my memory roughed up
by some unsavory characters
in an alley behind a bar
after last call.
I want my memory forced to fight
against insurmountable odds - unarmed,
when the other guys
all have knives.
I want my memory romanticized
for refusing to hand over my last 5 dollars
not out of bravery
but because threats were made.
I want my memory shoved
face down into the concrete
for having a look in his eyes
that was familiar.
I want my memory exposed
picking locks underwater
like Houdini in an empty theater
practicing for the grand finale.
I want my memory felled -
hurt and blue and drifting
knowing that in those final moments
no one is coming with the ax.
I remember nothing
just the way I want it
just the way it happened
the key jostling the mechanism
keeping everything locked up tight.