Favorite Son

I awoke to a number by a woman named Esperanza-

'Ponta De Areia', it was called

And I didn’t understand a damn thing she was saying

 But had I awoken to a tropical view of any sort,

The cat at the end of my bed and I

porcelain hammers 

and paper bullets 

can still inflict wounds 

for countless hours - 

with just the right strike, 

A King amongst Men

They lay in the grass

Well adapted to the earth

Locked hand-hand-

And hand-in-hand again

  Each with a leg entwined

Lovingly around the others

The way young lovers do

When clinging to each-others souls-

  -each discovering the others’

And claiming it for their own-

  She lay kissing at his neck,

He lay gazing at the stars,

Wondering how he ever caught one

And brought it down in his arms

  They lay there as the sky turned gray

And the morning fog settled and then glistened

On their bones and the worms retreated to the earth

  Motionless, they lay in each-others embrace

As if the world was of no consequence to they.

    They lay there for days, amongst the tainted grass,

Amongst the smell and the swell of decay

The weapon used- gone somewhere far downstream,

As too was the culprit, a jealous one, they’ll say.

  Someday the knife will wash ashore,

Ebbing from uphill into the unknown

But if I were to dip my hands into the waters of John

They lay in the grass

Well adapted to the earth

Locked hand-hand-

And hand-in-hand again

  Each with a leg entwined

Lovingly around the others

The way young lovers do

When clinging to each-others souls-

  -each discovering the others’ 

And claiming it for their own-

  She lay kissing at his neck,

He lay gazing at the stars,

Wondering how he ever caught one

And brought it down in his arms

  They lay there as the sky turned gray  

And the morning fog settled, and then glistened

On their bones, and the worms retreated to the earth

Motionless, they lay in each-others embrace

As if the world was of no consequence to they.

    They lay there for days, amongst the tainted grass

Amongst the smell and the swell of decay

The weapon used gone somewhere far downstream,

As too was the culprit, a jealous one they’ll say.  

  Someday the knife will wash ashore,

She had the look of the last girl on earth, and I mean that in a good way. The moment I set eyes on her, I knew there would be no other to shine so brightly, or taste so beautiful on my tongue, though I knew I’d likely have to fake a few; nothing lasts forever in times like these, especially the good stuff. Life has this way of teasing you with a paradise-built-for-you, and then promptly equips you with the ‘right’ tools and the tempers to burn it down, like the fabled Adam and eve did, all done without either of you having a clue, in retrospect, what the hell had happened, but the damage apparently has already been done.

Unrepairable- A total loss, an insurance stooge might say.

Perhaps it was the smoke, but I never saw the bridges burning.

So you find yourself drinking too much while cycling through a few meaningless relationships, then a few more, until you realize there isn’t a point. So, then,  you shut and lock your door, turn off the phone, and drink some more- reminiscing and writing, glancing at your gun a time or two.

There might be a knock at the door, but it’s certainly not the only guest you wish to see, so you just don’t answer. You hear them call you an asshole as they walk back to their car but hey- they should have called your phone, you tell yourself, knowing full well it was off all the same. Anyways, you didn’t have anything to offer them; being perfectly fine here in the darkest of places, serving a self-imposed penance- though you leave the porch light on, and one gate open.

The nights get colder, the whiskey gets stronger, but it has to, or else its pills to put you at ease enough to sleep. Always one or the other, or the nights are hell here- were you burned down the garden, and live in its shell, wondering where she might be out there.

It’s here in this place, where night after night, moon after moon, I bury myself, though I know a trip to some far off place might do me well- and soon. It’s here where I suffer myself with fools fantasies; stubborn, drunk, and waiting.

Collapse at Dawn

  The night brings both terror and paradise

-Memories of what was, promises of what should have been

-mistakes either forgotten, forgiven, or nonexistent altogether

Angels wrapped up in arm, angry or not, you’d take it all

Were there a rewind button labeled ‘learn and reconcile’

Its all imagery you would rather never wake from,

Lucidity a coma you would almost beg to remain inside

But with the sun comes the realization that none of that is true

-you are alone, forgotten, tossed away like yesterdays garbage

And the sheets are cold, ice almost four years in the making-

You fall back into those unforgiving linens,

And wonder how you will make it through this day alone and damned, all by your own doing.

You close your eyes and reach for the colder side..

Hoping at the very least, you can sleep, and dream again,

Where even the hardest of times, the roughest of roads,

There’s you, a few of your friends, a bottle or two of whiskey, a case of thirty in red white and blue (just in case), and a shared pack of smokes in this old room

You’re screaming over the top of your lungs at each other, because none of you want to be the one that turns the volume down;

-Not on such serenades, ballads, and attacks as are on this playlist- until it’s time to break just to crank your own guitars for a spin;

Just after or in between sessions of speaking wishfully of bands and women, of either this name or that- all pretend, though not quite in the realm of some weird fairyland

It might as well be a well-packed concert hall in here, but it’s just the group of you in a tired old house that’s seen one too many of these. 

You shout over shots of whiskey, debating the ins and outs of each band, each song that’s played, sometimes way too strongly, but that’s just the whiskey

Or it could be what everyone is suppressing inside; the things each of you gathered to escape or at the very least, suppress.

Memories of love, loss, war, peace- people and places not-so laid to rest-

All the things music is supposed to be about.  

It could be the anger, pain, the joy, or any sort of memories, not so safely harbored just beneath the shells, the masks you all three wear

-masks that read “over it?” with pizza stains and dead skin on your guitar strings

you down another shot, and spark up a smoke- the bunch of you at once, All for one, and one for all.

-Then you repeat the process until the first of you falls 

You’re celebrating nothing, but here’s to pretending- at least until morning when each of you wake, one by one cursing the sun, and proceed to breakfast over hangovers and swollen lips

And memories – still seething like the callouses on your fingers-

  Its dead eyes open, dead eyes forward no longer reaching out

If you think the sun never shines on you, try finding warmth beneath the dirt

Eyes stitched but forever seeking, stiff fingers forever scratching planks

  There is no god down here; no light leading forward

I hear that hell is calling; I guess im nearly there

I see no loved ones weeping; no one of my name behind

I see no god above me, calling one more lost soul home

  Or could it be, that this is hell built for me "

The ever conscious dead- with nowhere to go?

Is this filthy little hole where I finally find my end

Trying hard just to breath, watching my fingers bleed?

  And when the flesh is gone, and all my innards too,

I shall remain here yet, entombed but still alive

Until the day comes that everything else dies

Drafts

    There’s a cold wind blowing through this house;

Rattling weary bones and dusty shelves.

Pages fall from stacks of yellowed memories

And they all ask politely: will you read?

  Will you read of me?

  Will you hear what we have to say

About these bones in this stifled rocking chair,

And the faded photographs his hands bear?

  And if your name happens to have bled onto a page or two,

what might you think, of this One

Who’s been waiting for you?  

What might you think of these tattered words

Each, perhaps, meant in some way for you?

  Would you laugh and set fire to these relics, 

Or would you long for flesh from these old bones?

Would you burn down this cold, haunted house- 

Dared not called a Home

Captive Here

  Hell, I guess I’m nearly there

If we’re supposed to feel

Lashing flames and cold piercing steel

  Hell, I guess Im nearly there

If we’re supposed to find

That the Devil is real

  …I guess my reflection tells

  There is no God down here

No blinding light leading forward,

From this casket I call home

That I and only I created

  No outstretched hands reach for me

No outstretched hands beg for my return

  Guilt, I guess we’ve all known our share

If we’ve ever really cared to feel

But choked on pride, or just failed to stand and fight

Guilt, it’s a hell of a burden to bear

If you’ve ever really felt the cost

Of letting love slip and disappear..

  Don’t feel like you’re the only one let down and disappointed

Im not the man I envisioned either

So cast your stones, or your cold shoulders

Im still counting the cracks in my reflection scattered,

The pen, a knife

The canvas, either my flesh

Or someone else’s

The words that cut,

Sometimes straight, always true

The heart will bleed, will sing,

As long as the stitches remain unseen

For at least a moment or two 

while the soul peeks out

from whoever's wound