Keep Calm and Come Along

hydra drooling rum

i went to the parlor today and it rained

it felt like any other day with rain

except I saw you sitting all alone and scared

i thought of the days we’d spent for our cause

how every time i’d see your face

you’d shyly smirk and then you’d pause

the zipper on your dress

would slowly unhinge itself

til there was nothing left

but our clothes strewn and hanging from your shelf

and then we’d fall asleep

morning came and then it’d pass

second glances, not second chances of filling up my glass

‘cause you’d waddle with your fancy shoes

until i’d finally follow you again

took shots at the bar and shots in my car

swirving in between the lanes

took shots at you in the living room

no verbal poise, i just tried to be blunt, to be plain

so i lost faith an hour ago

when nothing you said made sense

you talked with such a heavy glow

you moved so slow without pretense 

several faces, several voices you were a hydra drooling rum

you tried to leave me several choices i could only choose the one

you won’t sleep alone

i won’t make it home

you’re absolutely fair

but i can’t stand your tone

It was a Lonely Year for Death

She swallowed splinters like shots at the bar
trudged with footsteps stained by soap
and bile.
Her buckets and mops would trail behind her
leaving darkened lines against our wooden path.
Her kisses always tethered to a string of wire
and zealot robe silk, sucking,
draining life
a hook in the lip of the weakened soul.
Wind from gutters blew her scent toward
our cottage by the minor streets,
our bedroom view marked by cityscape skylines.
Polluted sunsets consistent to paint the sky
on quiet days her rapping against our window panes
would leave us restless
wrapped around each other like sycophantic vines.

It was a busy year for death
going door-to-door knocking patiently—
always knowing we were home
sitting, pretending her fingernail scratches
against our mahogany weren’t there;
she’d hang her head like a scolded child
and scar our homestead with omen.
She’d hold out her hand wanting
waiting for a warm-blooded touch.
Leaves would blow and rustle around her
and she’d disappear
but not for long.

She injected disease like morphine on our porch
and laid her head against our brick.
Her hair would change color ever hour
when she’d grey, she’d whisper
mantras, spells, a seance of colloquial stutters.
Her gown of fog would rarely fade—
she’s shy, though I saw her several times
naked, and vulnerable; she’d cry.

It was a lonely year for death
she spent most of it weeping puddles
dampening our threshold.
She’d sing Solomon’s song
recite the unblossomed Lotus sutra
give an exhausted whistle of Homeric hymns
if only for attention;
I’d invite her in for coffee
but i’m only 23.

pearls on a string pt 3

if every drop of saliva that hangs on your lips is freedom
then i am a prisoner of tyranny and war,
watching another man’s liberation.

if every promise you write to me is true,
i will etch the ink upon my body
and let you read me like a speech.

you are a ghost
wandering the abandoned hallways of my mind.

sometimes you hum 
like a delipatated 1970s wall-in A/C box
subtly making your presence known,
reminding.

sometimes you scream
like a banshee on the moors
but you do not warn of death,
you only remind me of what will never be.

your hair is a curtain i will never open
your eyes are a window i won’t see through
your song is muted to my wanting ears
your ears are deaf to my pining song

you are elusive,
you are beautiful

you are a string of precious pearls
dangling out of reach.