calls me through the sussurus

deadtime
blackout
waiting for the buzz of the world
to trick me to sleep again

shut them out, shut the world off.
the stifling monologue
calls me through the sussurus

whipping speed winds
whipping boy on the post cries out for mercy
passes out
comes to on a new day with most wounds scared

hungry executioner, time
willing taker, earth
the twins eager, inviting
never sated.

the center of the forest bears no new tall trees

the woods are alive
the leaves are talking and jumping as the seeds
of their fathers are consumed
the center of the forest bears no new tall trees
saplings stripped bare
trampled underfoot on muddy trails

light spattered on stones
life scattered in the stones
moving water is always out of sight
birds are flitting behind another tree
watching, reporting, calling

blind insects careening, swarming
moving by instinct rather than senses
higher spiders preying, praying
lying and waiting for accident.

the land will claim me too as it did you

looking down at the angels above you
swimming in the æther surrounding
the smell of your wounded heart and soul.


shoveling the sweat-saturated dirt and gravel
digging a hole and covering another grave
so much to get done, so little time left
drive, drive, drive the road north
to the end of the highway that ends in water


the smell of burning hair and rubber
the weight of years


experience


too little too often left me too distant and wanting
wanting to take the reigns and leave this western town
holding on, hoping against hope i remained
waiting.
rusting into the ground.
the land will claim me too as it you.
as it you.


i suppose its always the same:
we look to finish we look to leave others
with sufficient provisions
but we never really do.


as a son says "goodbye" he hopes his own is better prepared.
but it won't be.


"even in a crowded room
we all die alone," he said.

unravelling in the rain on a boring Sunday

pouring in from the leaking roof
the water, the weight, the gravel, the sand

hits the tables and cascades
over the chair and to the floor
the streak, the line, the current, the torrent

whispers stick to the walls, hidden under the coats of new paint
grooves in the floor have been ground down and stripped.
bare. refinished.

"watch me run down the hall way and not make a sound"
but no one sees it with interested eyes.
no one hears it, that was the point;
now i wish it was noisier.

the weight of the roof is massive
and the windows bulge and sag
the dirt foundation gives way and the house shrinks
but i see it.

how could i not notice
it's always in my head it's always on my mind
every updated picture is fuel for the fire
and a brisk breeze to boot.

no one shovels the snow on the walkway like they did
and no one runs to exhaustion like we did
tore it up reckless.
reckless.

and now the only way to have regret is to have done something stupid
the only way to miss something is to not have it
the only reason to apologize is to have broken something down.

and the thread comes loose.
unraveling in the rain on a boring Sunday
wasted with complaints of boredom
and now...

full-color monotone

skin so strong it breaks the needle
eyes so blue they light the room up.

kicking around the old street
i hear the cars and their tinny radios with maxed- out volume
i can feel the warmth of the shadows on the sidewalks still
i must be the only one

must i?

the trees are gone, the handrails rusted off their posts.
different birds are singing in diffrent trees
different cars park in the same driveways
looking up at the same houses with different colors.

my old house is for rent.
i feel so betrayed.
they stripped off the siding and tore out the old bathroom.

my mouth agape
my face askance, my arms akimbo
my cheeks flushed and drenched
just who do they think they are?

this was mine. I didn't choose to leave, i was moved
at eight years of age, you can't
push back the tide

of parental consent.

i don't get mail there anymore
i haven't for over twenty years.
the mail i do get now i don't want.

burn me. it burns me deep

until my blood boils to steam.
my feathers dark blue and so pretty but no one sees them but me.
i'm going blind but i can't tell.
All i know is that the light is darker than it was.

i took the pictuers, i stored them on a hard drive.
i'll post them on line with little messages
inside jokes and rose-colored memories that won't likley
get picked up by anyone.

I will format the pictures, probably enhance the colors.
i wonder what hue the pictures will have when they post:
will they be blue to reflect some predictable feeling i feel now
will they be rose-hued to portray the way i see what i saw then
will they be monotone to emphasize some sort of absolute and finite notion
of my condition:

even though i understand
times have changed

i refuse to admit
that times have changed.

fuck.