Shieldwall

An iron wall

built into my shoulder

to bind the sinew to the bone,

the viscera to the meat.

One of metal, of plate, of screw

to deflect javelins of words

spears of intent:

the weapons women wield.

Deep below the surface of flesh

lying between riven bone,

socketed steel

the wound festers, grows fevered

sending electrical tendrils of warning:

the barrier fails.

A lodestone of iron

forged from the iron wall

charged powerfully, woefully

by the currents of nerves, neurons

swarming through my body:

I am aligned to her

as moon to earth.

She has but to unseal slow-strung lips

permit scant few words to flow

for the shield to fall

and I to fail.

Cell Phones

I walk far from the vocal spigot

bolt-lever fastened and secure

move forward, away in haste

in the belief that time traversed

correlated

with her voice erupting

breaking haphazard safety seals.

Falling like a fountain in my absence

her words come to strike the ground

dissolving rapidly, churning dirt to mud

splashing filth into my footprints

the sound of her jarring,

drowning my thoughts from afar.

Sprinting maddened and fevered,

I dive long and deep

in desperate bid to swallow the delgue,

to take it all within me

but the taste is wrong;

flat, sweet where was expected bitter, bubbly.

It dawns on me then

that though the name is the same

the wrong Sara has spoken.

Low Stakes for High Yields

She's throwing her face of need

all aglow and hopeful

begging victimhood.

Imagining nobody notices

eyes-wide, downturn

pulling photons from the floor

grasping at ancient, shattered pieces.

Oh, but he's an old hand at this

senses, by design, adept at this

scented fertile fields

heard her long before she spoke.

Yet anew she'll try again

caution uplifted

not as bastion,

but seed cast to the wind.

Scattering

hoping they'll grow in boughs 'round her

to deflect the worst of him.

Oh, but he's an old hand at this

a product of generations perfecting tools for this:

whether by axe, by rake or by hoe

he knew her path long before its growth.

She looks upon him now

strutting about her blasted field

offering token, vague resistance

before yielding

like the crop he knew her to be.

Helias

She came as does morning

radiant and becoming in introduction

illuminating

flaws, goals, underlying structure

By high noon there was clarity

visions possible only at deep night

stirred into being by her apex.

Dusk, though long of shadow,

held comfort of embrace

of held hands

solidarity of mutual purpose

red-ringed

by veiled anger.

As the night came

she was gone.

Suns

Hair explainable, perhaps only attainable,

via jagged electric lines from the sky

yet eyes follow, shimmer greengoldenbrown

with none of storm's lined chaos, no,

but maybe focused-inflicted madness

as

they

settle straight-on, brightened above wide-eyed

smile

-something new, there,

shattered-glass that's mended fast

upturned hopes but sails at half-mast.

Bicycle Murder

Boredom churns broad-in-brain

competing with petty volumes of alcohol

(white Russian, 1, Magic Hat #9, 1)

for dominance of the summer's eve.

Unsure of which would prove the victor,

past-tense, too, filled with unknowing:

thought- and pedaling-process interrupted

by a traitorous bicycle;

a forward-bent-fork;

a fleeing, unbolted forwardwheel.

Fast-pitch forward,

eyes-wide but dead:

quickfall into void.

Then, wide-eyed horror:

awake again

filled with the horrible pain of life again

fueled, amplified tenfold

through the impact of the sidewalk.

East Side at Sunset

Low-rise light commercial blocks

obscure the horizon,

making the sky seem small.

Patchy, steel-on-violet

cloud canopy is gripped,

dragged horizontal,

catching beams of sunlight

scattering them

in a thousand different directions

of only one color.

Mid-April

unexpected goldburst of a cold sunset,

come too late:

soon, fall will arrive.

A sun so low,

squat buildings raised so high

that shadowed cast are long,

and the days short.

Madchant

The maddened gaze of the bearded man

harrowed, narrowing,

eyes alighting on some feature of mine internal,

his ravings' pace growing with the drumbeat,

insane libations growing red,

setting the same fire as his shielded eyes.

Join in the chant!

words unspoken but receipt demanded,

Join in the chant!

demands issued not from but at me,

Join in the chant!

I could do but smile -

Sycophantic sisters,

in praise of seeming-spirituality,

had joined in the chant

Seemingly-believing brothers,

raving on skins of drums,

had joined in the chant.

Join in the chant!

mobs of madmen demanded,

Join in the chant!

issued forth from some ill-imagined spirit,

Join in the chant!

my skin crawled in demand of me.

I decided it best

to avoid telling them

that I was an atheist.

Sidewalk Labyrinth

Grim skies,

blacker thoughts -

poison of doubt, of feigned measures

confused allegiances

(me or her?)

Fixations on tie-dye,

deep within shadowed sidewalks.

A girl of fevered pitch,

I of leadened, caution-guarded mouth.

Yet we strode,

pale bodies glowing once again

I listening, and you

you delivering

before I imparting

more honesty than I'd dare with most

-provided those truths

concerned another than I -

before watching you again vanish

via knees-to-chin,

predawn acrobatics

strung out on key lime pie.

The more poetry

I write about you

the less

I want you to read it.

High Costs

You!

I said screaming,

leaping clear of the chasm

while, towards him burning-eyes were peering.

I!

Laughed he, beaming,

standing astride, arms crossed, taunting,

his entire being leering.

Death!

My screaming nerves warned

muscles tense, eyes alert,

looking for a place of defenses forlorn.

Your death!

huge Miermot roared,

billions of muscle-veins bulging

as the fiend brought to bear his sword.

Lightning!

Leaping from the clashing blades

igniting underbrush below

with the fury of Hades.

An inferno!

leapt from shadows & shades

throwing up all 'round us

walls of flaming braids.

Vengeance!

My motives so loudly did cry

to right the injustice

through which my brother did die.

Bloody violence!

the blood blooming forth did sigh

bursting forth from vein and sinew

into an unmarked grave will Miermot lie!

Little fool!

did shout mighty and powerful Miermot

Into the ground I will smite you,

into death you will go!

Murderous slash!

upon mine chest, spewing forth blood-flow

and now, all 'round my vision

dimly does sight not glow ..

Desperate riposte!

Mine own blade snaked out

scoring to bone, hand-length deep,

pulling from Miermot a painful shout,

Pirouette!

did spin the next attack of our bout

missing, maybe, causing Miermot laughing

as his own sword pushed mine away - and out.

Tiny fool!

did Miermot growl,

clutching, one-handed, his gaping wound

coming upon me now in a cautious prowl.

Weakling!

terrible, horrible Miermot shouted in a howl

lunging swordward quickly and decisively

to me, whom he did disembowel.

Retch!

Did my mind, weeping, reel

an outpouring of life

did my entire being feel.

Death!

the layers of life Miermot's sword did peel

leaving me to collapse

broken and ruined upon the field.

Laughter!

Grim and horrible came forth from he

pleased in the knowledge

that he'd denied revenge to me.

Humiliation!

I'd failed utterly in vengeance to be,

and now I die,

my vision of a dead Miermot I'll never see.

Victory!

did accursed Miermot stand

gloating of face,

black of hand!

Pyrrhic victory!

as Miermot lacks knowledge of the poisonous gland

which, affixed earlier to mine sword,

will him him where he stands.

Skytower

Up and over walls and weeds,

ever-towards the tower did we climb

wrapped about with anxiety and anger,

isolated ahead of the herd

alone, we lead,

a mob edging closer

to storm-filled skies.

A bed of rocks, debris of cans,

sky-touch achieved:

we'd been first

to the isolated pinnacle.

Lightning storm to the east,

fog to the fore

and soon, somewhere nearby,

a stereo, playing the music of my youth

framing the sound of people laughing,

people drinking

men climbing too high

but mercifully, never falling.

A green gasmask, a black bandanna,

two flashlights and two armpairs, pale of skin:

we again set out apart from the mob,

lost ourselves in computer crypts,

lamp graveyards,

uniform-chair depositories,

a ghost-floor filled with superstition and cauldrons.

Varieties of folder,

both manila and hanging,

bound across your back -

you got what you came for.

So did I.

Mattress Fire

Furious orange wounds

rimmed in charcoal

betray last night's secret:

died, almost died,

charred in an accidental inferno

due to the lazy application

of a long-standing addiction.

Warm,

paper-burn stink clings

to the heat of an early morning

- July.

The slowly-creeping wet heat

in stark contrast

to the quickflash realization of predawn:

my bed was on fire.

The must never know,

those in the cells opposite -

surely, threats of neglectful destruction

warrant the hasty eviction

of a new tenant.

Thus I,

the wakeful sentinel of 611 Lyon

watching for mattress ignition

have overturned the hopefully-cooled burns

and will sleep

to avoid dwelling on thoughts

of housefires.

Needle-Point Construction

Tapping the vein

at the cross-section of upper and lower arm

striking the needle deep,

jagged and rough,

upon notice that Second

isn't a one-way street anymore.

Must have changed while I was gone.

My Malibu,

swerving viciously to avoid the old Grand-Am

finds its way into the right lane

the only lane

fitting like a glove on the wrong hand.

Ahead, 475 dictates my departure.

A detour, the sign says,

with little ostentation,

even more accuracy.

The highway vomits me away,

chewed and confused,

an exit before my usual.

Though the path ahead

veers straight as a needle,

it's two miles downwind.

Two miles behind.

Great symbolism

I tell myself

pressing hard on the accelerator.

Red Fingerprint

Quick little pinprick
barely breaking the skin
small welter of blood
filling in fingerprints.

Once a past shared
fleeting moments among years
erased in lieu of bigger smiles,
more pleasant portraits.

Just a quick little prick
reminding me, despite a
decade of turning away
that once, I faced the flash too.

Yearbook Club

Surrounded

circle-fashion

by friends long-past

-maybe overdue-

at a glowing table

nestled deep within a white bar.

Frothing like a cauldron,

bubbles and pockets of past

our past, I guess

erupting over the table

each bursting

upon encountering the pride-filled prick

of my lack of interest.

I float grimly along

skating hidden incandescent

watching passively as my cloud is drained

upon understanding

that these people,

these friends of old,

notice, understand, and do not care

that I certainly do not.

Business as Usual

Unbidden

the sun boils angrily

through ruptured cloudcover.

The light cast grim, grey and warm

exciting water molecules below

pushing coppery atrophy on steel devices.

Inside, the air hangs low,

clinging to chemically-coded dust

awaiting the back-and-forth

of the broom.

Some base stink

hovers about the building;

origin unknown.

Outside, crows shriek joyously

at the bulging, stinking black bags

so recently tossed

into the treasure heap.

Faith Healer

Violet serpents
wind their way
through billowing,
iron sheets.

Shadowed
from a sun unseen
an old man hunched
eye-sealed
cackles
in hysterical,
hacking fits.

Gnarled, tapered hands:
one,
closes into fist
another
traces leylines
across the sky.

A pair of serpents
coil
constrict the air
tremble
and wait.

Trembling mouth
grows taut.
Bright-burning
solitary eye
opens-wide.

The heavens
alight.

Twin serpents
lash verticle,
lunging,
striking her simulacrum
shattering
plaster, blood, and bone
as her stilled lips
masticate
lovely devotionals.

Back-turned
eye cast-to-ground
an old man
silently
ambles
away
as
violet serpents
again wind their way
through billowing
iron sheets.

Fight or Flight

Scurrying mouse
underbrush, branch, and foot
flee from things big,
armed with tooth and claw,
for they mean to eat you.

Bathtub Bumblebee

Bumblebee
motionless in the bathtub
until buried from above
by water from the faucet.

Futile wingbeats attempt flight
legs probe desperately for purchase
the entire, furry form
struggling against a vertical tide.

An empty, amber beer bottle
forces the bumblebee down
crushing it through the drain opening
leaving a mess for my room-mate.

Strange Measures

'Casting the dice,'
I told him
as if he couldn't see for himself.

'What better gamble,'
I told him
'than the most desperate?'

'The one you could win,'
he responded
but I didn't hear him.

Untitled

Ghosts everywhere
she said
her silvery words
sliding with the hollow-point
clicking audibly into place.

We can't help
what we are, right?

The question leaping
from lip to wall and back again
before I could react.

I reached out,
but was too slow.