Category: Uncategorized

We were getting badly whipped.
The arrows turned, the lances slipped,
the blood congealed upon the stones
and thick like honey, damped the bones;
Our goddess, justice, turned her head
and wept before the mounting dead:
“Oh how can such an evil sin
Be rent upon these gallant men?
Their courage boundless, arms secure
yet doomed to die in holy war–”
I looked into the moiling mass
and saw the dreadful cannon blast
that smote upon the countryside
and threw the limbs and heads aside
and now the godless moslem horde
was rolling down with lunging sword–
I could not bear to look again.
I knew we were the last of men
I turned to pray for easy death
when there upon a jutting crest
The Holy Man of God Appeared!
Twas Santiago, loved and feared
that holy man, that sinner’s bane–
I knew the fight was ours again.
And sure enough, he surged ahead
and trampled on the moslem dead:
“No more beasts will end our lives!
No more will they take our wives!
No words be in that Satan’s tongue!
No evil godless songs be sung!
For God, for Jesus up above,
for peace and for America!”
And with that ringing cry he went
and fell upon the battlement;
our men could scarcely match his stride,
in minutes, all the beasts had died.
Our goddess, justice, stood in awe
and rand a joyous vict’ry call
and gave a prayer for all our dead
and spat upon a moslem’s head.
And I beheld our lovely, pure
and gentle saviour, drenched in gore,
and said, “This man is surely blessed
to steal us from our certain deaths;
for I know that a man is judged
by what he’s worth in moslem blood.”
And then down in the battlefield
our Santiago prayed and kneeled,
ascended high, and as he went
cried out: “God bless the President!”
The celebration went for days;
we sang and slurred our songs of praise,
we did not bury moslem dead
but threw them in the sea instead,
and then we went in victory
and took the moslem towns with ease
and burned the houses, stole the wives
and christened them our holy prize.
Yes, every war’s a holy war,
every sinner’s death is pure,
for God loves everyone, but then,
He mostly loves Americans!

Just a face in the neon crowd
Dreamin’ big, sayin’ dreams out loud
Small town heart on a midnight ride
Head full of stars, nowhere to hide
She’s chasing echoes down a dark-lit street
Holdin’ tight to the rhythm of her heartbeat

He’s got calloused hands and a restless soul
Lookin’ for truth in a world gone cold
Strangers passing, lost in the flow
But they both believe there’s more to know

They don’t know where the road will go
But they’re not turnin’ back, not takin’ it slow

Keep the fire burning,
We feel your yearning don’t let go
Even in the dark, let your spirit glow
One more mile, one more song
Hold on to hope, stay strong
Keep the fire burning… all night long

Dreamers fall but they rise again
Chasing love in the pouring rain
Every scar’s just a story to tell
A spark in the night that time can’t quell

FIRE BURNIN’
They’ve been burned but they still believe
In the light that lives beneath the grief
With every step, they find their way
Turning pain into power every day

They don’t need a reason why
They just lift their heads and aim for the sky

Keep the fire burning,
We feel your yearning don’t let go
Even in the dark, let your spirit glow
One more mile, one more song
Hold on to hope, stay strong
Keep the fire burning… all night long

The world may try to pull you down
But you’re not lost, you’re glory-bound
Raise your voice and sing it loud
You’re alive — stand up proud!

Keep the fire burning,
We feel your yearning don’t let go
Even when you’re tired, let your passion show
One more dream, one more fight
You were made to shine so bright
Keep the fire burning…

FIRE BURNIN’
Through the night

Keep the fire…
Burning…

Trying to save him, I
caused his death instead.
He rescued me, but I stood helpless
in front of that grave.
Do I deserve to live in his stead?
My life was spared. So,
why did you take him from me?

O, Troy! O, broken city of flame and fathers, how the wind still bends across your dust, and how the earth remembers the weight of your feet, the sound of your laughter lost in the tall grass, and the ache of your songs that once swelled like rivers beneath the moon. O, Troy! The blood of your sons still soaks the ground, the echoes of your women still rise in the night, their cries long gone but still carved into the silence of the stones.

They came for you, the dark-sailed ships from the far-off coasts, and the fire of their spears lit up the world with a hunger no man could bear. They came with the swords of their fathers, the thirst of their mothers, and they burned your houses, they tore your walls, they took your gold and your gods, and they left behind the silence of ash, the hollow breath of time.

And you, Troy—you gave them what you could: the iron bones of heroes, the shattered shields, the quiet glint of bronze beneath the ruin. You gave them the silence that waits beneath all war, the silence that lingers in the hearts of men long after the last sword is broken. You gave them the gift of memory, the dream that never dies, the terrible beauty of loss that grows like a shadow across the years.

And we who come after—we who walk these fields of stone and grass, we who hear the wind sigh through the ruins—we carry your silence with us, a burden and a blessing, a weight in the bones that sings of something we will never know. For we are the children of dust and time, born from the same hunger that swallowed you whole, and we will go on spinning our days in the turning light, our lives a fleeting spark in the endless wheel of the world.

O, Troy! O, silent gift of swords and fire—we stand in your shadow, and we remember.

Red light, black Suburban, camo cap
I twined our lines in destiny’s plaid
Waiting for the traffic to glow green
She talks ahead as I watch unseen

I can not hear her music out of her open window
But I can see her sing
Her left hand waves a cigarette
Wearing a shattered ring

The intersection started slowing down
Till all were standing still
But it was her who edged ahead
Tapping ash against her sill

I went down the north ramp
And she went down the south
Speeding at the entrance
Blowing smoke out of her mouth

Four steel posts through a tender lobe
One for each year of innocence
Four is a tender age
For your whole world to shatter
In sticky fragments on the kitchen floor
An explosion of glass and jam
That my mother couldn’t hear
It’s a tender age
To hold your mother’s crying face
Between your own small hands
As you chant ‘it will be okay’
And the baby cries from the other room

Three more scar my cartilage
One for each year of service
It’s a tender age
To pretend to be the secretary again
She says it’s a game
But your stomach twists and knots anyway

Seven barbs of metal nestled into flesh
One for each year of childhood
Seven is a tender age
To hide the bubbling fear
At seeing your mother’s scars
They snake across a hairless scalp
Angry mad-scientist stitches
Radiating out from her left ear
You bury your horror because
She can hear again
As the magnets do their work
Sort of, from the left side, for the most part

Seven years’ apprenticeship
Now a master hand
My adorned and studded ear
Armouring a soft seashell of sound

Thumping music blares.
My heart constricts to its bass.
My hair falls freely, wildly, down my back.
My skin is pale and smooth.
I smell like burnt almonds and cherry—
Sweet, but dark.

Bending at the waist,
My elbow pressed against a scuffed vanity,
I concentrate—
Then retreat.

I need a sharpener.
I pull open the acrylic drawer,
Once clear, now veiled in dusty dew.
The music flows—primitively, desolate.

I grab the sharpener, pink residue clinging to it,
And I turn.
The eye kohl whittled to a point.
I concentrate again.

I line my eye—
Black.
My pupils dilate,
Round, infinite holes.
I stare.
A fridge smile cracks—
One that could crumble at any second.

I crank the pencil again.
Line my left eye—stabbed.
I flinch, drop everything.
Black smudge spills down my cheek.

In the mirror: bloodshot eyes,
Morose makeup smeared.
The corners of my mouth pull back—
Teeth bare, sneering,
A wicked smile.

Then I laugh—
A cold cackle.
Then heat.
Then tears.

I laugh and laugh and laugh—
A crow and a roar.
A poisonous wail.
Into hysteria.
Sweet impassion.

I surrender.
Crumble—like the pencil on the floor.
My face, a wreckage.

I am painting a picture
Of what I should be—
Carnal.
Coy.
Curious.

Crushed.

Glitter dances in shards and fragments.
The watery chatter inside my veins.
The music skips—
A solitary cadence.

My heart is smeared across my glossy face.
Charcoal.

At work, I sit with people as they sign
their Last Wills and Testament. Part of my job
is to smile at them, make them feel comfortable
while they contemplate their mortality. I talk
to them about their summer plans, and
enthusiastically say yes when they are instructed
to ask me to be their witness.
If they tell me that they no longer speak with
their daughter, I simply acknowledge how
families are not all the same.

I find Wills to be strange poems, a collection
of moments. Some time after my brother-in-law
passed away, I found a small bottle of Cherry Coke Zero
he left in my fridge, and I was not able to dispose of it. My son
asked if I could leave it to him in my Will,
and I imagined all the wonderful things I could
specifically bequest to him:
the bottle of Cherry Coke Zero from Uncle Joey,
my beaded bracelets he already steals,
the incense he always asks me to burn that’s kept
in the strange armoire in the living room
which was left there by the previous owners–

but I wouldn’t need to, as he is my one and only,
and everything will fall to him anyway.
All I need to leave for him is
permission to throw it all away.

Counting the days lost to grief. Counting the teeth
falling from my face. Disgraced
for what they couldn’t clench, disgusted
by the stench of the rot in the sockets underneath.
Disappointments dig in deep.
Roots rummaging through nerves
unnerved by uprooting
constantly shooting this catch-22 pain
through my veins from one end to the other,
only stopping to hover my heart. Only stopping
to distort my sight. Figments hold light
but mirages are known for misadvising,
disguising truth in fantasy, still,
sometimes I let them lie to me, sometimes
it’s the only life that seems to be living.
Sometimes
I have to stop swallowing
doses of indifference, for just a few minutes.
For just a few minutes,
I have to forget the days
lost to grief before I lose my belief
in the possibility of days without it.

I wonder if ghosts get older. If they get a glimpse of a life that waited for them if they kept breathing a little longer. & I try to picture that life as they visit us on those long winter nights when the furnace struggles to heat this hundred & twenty year old house & we remember all we’ve lost that once was as real as the dog laying on my lap right now.

In sixth grade I hung out with my friend Matt when he was able & never spoke of his hairless head or the time he had left. & I tried to find an answer, a satisfying explanation, for what I knew, even at eleven years old, was not fair. & it wasn’t fair when I went to his funeral—divine providence couldn’t assuage the numbness in my chest. I think I knew then that this is all there is.

But on my best days I hope a place beyond this one exists for the sake of reunions
to see Matt again & tell him the story of the life that could have been
to see my Grandmother again & tell her that I tried to make her proud
to see Dia again & let her know that so many of us are better because of her
to see Kelly hug Josh again & laugh about those near misses we’ve all had
to see Schiz again & tell him he deserved better than what we had to give
to see Mr. Davis again & thank him for giving us a safe place to grow
to see Paula & Cindy & Nanna & Robert & Paul B. & Gene & Jannette & Chris & even Ken &
Zach H. & Zach T. & Laura & Stephanie & Jessica & Jack & Aubrey & Scott M. & Matt E. &
Amanda & Ian & Mark & Joseph & Bonnie Jean & Ed & Donna & Sue & Regina &

& I never planned to live this long so I hope the ghosts of my loved ones haunt me as I remember all the reasons I’m not dead yet. & today I am thankful I’ve survived myself for as long as I have, to build them a monument to a world worth living in.