There’s always tomorrow I say, only having ever known today and the vast, vanishing past. I crawl out of bed before I’m finished sleeping, I don’t get started until I’m through. Time is always talking trash behind my back, laughing like god at the plans I never bother making. All dread and drama and misplaced commas. All supply and demand and mapped out last stands....
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The words still dance though no one is looking. The trees still sway with wind and crows. The lonely rooms are just as empty, the windows stare out unblinking. There’s kids and cars and the lilt of laughter, the yard strewn with weeds and bones. The days move swiftly, the nights are brutal. The heart beats on, unloved and alone. Looking back is like looking...
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Gone are the days of hunger artists, the hunger workers having cornered the market, cardboard signs and societal declines correlating quite nicely on the charts. Hit records that don’t quite hit so hard, and dancers loosed without a card. The bygone skies of lucid hues now all bare bones blue, the confessions of derelictions now all not mes it’s yous. Despite the local flyboys and...
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The hours of exposition pass, and the hours of introspection are put on hold, swallowing every dying tide. Cobwebs and spotted mirrors, the sounds of fans and trains. Tequila burning in the belly, branches scratching at the window, the overcast sky full of ominous light. The most recent wounds won’t stop mouthing off, and the shower seems a million miles away. The moon took to...
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The day is as empty as the sky, the wind runs wild with grace. Dust swirls in detail devils across the dirty porch. The eaves are laden with webs and wasps, rotting in slow neglect. The rats have gnawed through everything, through wire and through wood. The angels have murdered the greater good, every flag a tatters, every soul a shambles. I am the long...
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Time doesn’t listen to your demands. Time isn’t in it for prayers and praise, no paper god to weep and mutter at, no checklist to pause and consider. It speaks, cogs and gears spilling from its mouth, and your bones are winnowed and you go gray. It speaks and your parents are buried. It speaks and everything you loved or knew is dead and gone....
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I could make way for your better angels. I could clear off a place on the shelf. I could cheer the stars as they slip into the sky unnoticed, watching as their sparkle tries to usurp the moon as it takes its time in the tomb. We never know how hard it’s going to hit. We never know what’s on its way. All stones and...
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Gone are all the words of comfort, tomorrow’s endless horizon waiting for the day. Gone are all the ones who held you, left for dead, at least to you. The night’s long shadow a fete of blindness before the autumn’s last carnival arrives to deal its devils and thieve the bright from the eyes of children. The fresh wounds open, the scent of blood on...
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The glory days were long ago, the halcyon and hallowed days when things seemed possible and real. We follow the dots we are offered, bread crumbs from tycoons and their cronies and stooges to lead us into the wilderness. We buy the lies that make us feel better, the ludicrous sports fan attachment to flags and false hierarchy that drives us towards the foolish and...
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Weeping gets you nowhere, sitting on the back porch as the day procrastinates. The old wounds won’t close and the sun is in your eyes. The even sos and the at leasts don’t work, no sugar masks the medicine, the grind of this long decline beating bruises into your bones. High crimes of dull impunity are the law of the land, and the worst is...
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khachery:
what a poem!
So it goes from sky to sky, from all those stars to just the one, from bright and blue to the depths of black. Your eyes always lit from without and within, seeing by the skins, shining from the flame. Tears flow freely from the fierce and the meek, a script of salt and sheen. Each mythos a microcosm of the possibilities of words and...
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Turn the earth to sew the curse, the salt from the ocean, the stones from the grave. Seed the sun and watch the wither. Catch the wind and reap the plague, the restless dead and the ceaseless tide. Run your routes and dream your dreams, done in by blood and Ponzi schemes. Write your dear Johns and your poison pills, you are the illness of...
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