I lied today, then lied some more, and lied again. One reason is there for the little rhymes I pen. Storms wane, and although try I might, I never can. No time is lost on earth but pining over stubborn men. I’m sorry.
Hail to the privation I knew not yet how to miss, An utter desolation, mistaken, once, for duty’s bliss. They weigh like pregnant cloud banks, the humid memories, Heaving their stomach contents — at the mere sight of virility. Wisdom pledges anguish, a mind corset never willed, And so knowledge begets reprisal, always by loss instilled. Perhaps by now I should hail amnesia, a sleepy mercygrace, Avail myself of small white pellets, to put me back in my place.
We were like mountains breaking apart. Were pounding like fists on a slowing heart. And touching me at a spot so wet, You competed with years of blood I’d let. We spun a tale of mutual rape, Until either dawn or bones would break, Then returned to warmth to lick our wounds, But, once healed, longed to be hurt anew.
Journey northwest, towards the Cascades tonight. Bring along your cargo, doubt and pride. Blaze through the Taylor Mountain trails, leave your hide. A soldier, reluctant, jaw clenched tight.
And if we could still burn cities to the ground, Bathe our entity in the unfound skulls atop the mound. If we could walk through murder suicide, our land? If your mind and teeth cannot caress, beat me then. Would you not grip me tighter, twirl me around, Bed me on the pitiful husks at Puget Sound?
Instead you flew to Tallahassee tonight. Left me accused — speak, what other lie, What treachery of compatriots, what crime Shall I commit that warrants your faith and time?
And if we can’t still incite the vapid horde,
Then I myself will hand you crowbar and chord, If we can’t
walk through rotted timber woods, our land? If you can’t see the
truth for the trees, kill me then. Would you wed my corpse in his
basilica? Bury me with your casualties at Issaquah.
It’s a new high, it’s the old low, Betwixt what I dread, yet seek to know. Like pulling teeth and splitting hair, The exchange mayhap a tad debonair. Has vacillation bound these tongues, And habit replaced awe before long?
“Mayday, Mayday!” A mayfly’s lament, Its cocoon cast onto the firmament.
If absence makes the mind grow fierce, How to stretch the hours across the years? A scholarly play, a delicate lie, A demand my breed can’t satisfy. If a junebug I were, would it put us at ease? Or is this, all this, but my paranoid reprise?
“Maynight, Maynight!” a mayfly’s last tune. Come join me some night in my new cocoon.
An episode carved with scalpel in stone, The loreless maiden, entombed in a crone. Fists clutching the sanatorium’s gown, As the man on the ledge flung himself down. No grave did he find at the bottom red, But surgical cotton, a makeshift bed.
The Stranger, the Hermit, the Lover, Death. The Tower, the Prison, The Beast’s last breath. A shared soul pavilion, slightly deranged. Indefinite, though parameters changed.
Crush the headstone, by its lesson abide, Swallow the rock dust to soften inside. Reach far past the pit with all its regrets, Forgive all the world and its living dead. Freely dispense the soot from my hearth, So it may become the salt of the earth.