Turn your head and... Some days the past comes Breaking the fourth wall Grabbing me by the balls Telling me to turn my head And spit. Just like that. Nothing to censor, just say What I feel like phlegm spat On grass to fester and boil.
Triggered Some days, triggers are pulled; Rounds shooting through every Lock keeping tight every box Where grief rests deep and safe Inside the heart needing tender Songs of pastoral beauty. Veins Whose delicate push of blood Keep my bleeding inside eyes That now scream tears hidden Inside the boxes whose lids Flipped open leave the last Remaining thing: Hope, Pandora, Hope. Let me finish this scream, First, then we’ll box it up again, Until later, until later, until later.
When the dying began I became untethered as one by one The guardians fell who stood watch Protecting the child hid inside keeps From the war that raged around him Every day. A war he didn’t want. A war that didn’t ask. A child that didn’t… First the old lady. Then a mute snuck Behind the lines and stole the voice Of the man whose canoe adventure Opened up a world. A world opened. Finally the greatest hero for a boy, Shot his final rounds into the night Hoping he’d hit one last target for The little boy in the keep waiting…
Embers I look into embers, the fire fading finds me Searching for a story in its patterns; Glowing words seem blended into morass And I sort them with the birch branch Held in my hand to tend to important work; A fire stick to help me move the flames Until a story emerges. I will tell it now. Like a man who wakes from a nightmare Again. Again. And Again. People in lines, Like images plucked from black and white Photos; starving, homeless, suffering Await their needs be met, ask for help. I see them. Alone, only I see them. These individual souls: a suffragette, A slave woman, a child, a gaunt man. I see them. Alone, only I see them. Down the alley I run for help, the streets Become cleaner, the houses orderly The men line up and march together So uniform, so perfect, so clean, cut Out of a phantasm of supposed to be’s. Running away, they turn, black eye marbles Reveal my terror to me. I wake. Weeping For the little boy who needed me most.
An Epitaph The past broke the fourth wall Just like that. Nothing censored Just spat like phlegm.