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.