#warriorpoet

The kids have come home, Winded, bloodied and filled spite, A putrid boiling from the left eye And admonition every dawn; This final gift, never waning, Given by and guaranteed his final victim.

I can taste the bitter born deserts, “Might as well,” millions Of both miles and tears away As I watch him limp to the counter – Two dollars short for the apple pie he’d been Promised mere seconds prior deployment;

Oaths and only to be broken now, busted, Nursing half-a-life and the half-eaten burger He couldn’t afford; ten bites and All he’d dreamt under Arabian skies, Savory, the home he’d always known, Or in the least, always assumed;

Home was to hold, not to hunt, Not to haunt, not to taunt, never to forget As a concrete cold replaces tax-payer steel When he still shakes from the night prior, Later hours with drink And even later, without her.

So comes my smallest gesture When I spring the two bucks, Turn and walk away Wishing that I’d dropped a ten For the bottle he’d really wanted, But kept, for the coma I’d needed.

Truth be told, I’d felt a little victimized too; At the failure of, “god,” the failure of, “country,” The failure of, “me,” and entirely, the failure of, “we.”

She’d spread like clockwork, Her words and far from Those Ample Velvet stockinged Legs –

“I’m not going to sleep with you.”

She’d stalked me, Me and my companion “alone,” - A bottle, A thought or two And sought after solitude, She’d whisper –

“I’m not going to sleep with you.”

And when three came to be, And to “be” meant to close, Followed soon, our kiss, Amid a mid-July parking lot, She’d retreat –

“I’m not going to sleep with you,”

And retract

“Take me home,”

I did.

Under moon, and epochs ordained, We’d near embark upon a dance, Few and far for some, Every other day for others,

I’d retreat.

I’d sneak away to the stars, Slide beneath a pale green tree, Take a swig from a stolen beer And imagine myself having Just dodged a bullet.

Old-man, “疯” (“Feng”) Dirt-muddled, with limp, and Atop heat-warped asphalt Peddles wares and screams, “AHAA!” At police, the pride, and streets In between. But only he, could find Solace in a first night’s slumber Amongst the corruption, chaos, And wrath, come Liwan’s neon.

I’d imagined the predicament - A big loss come Mahjong stake And wine-swollen tongue; But the ivory tiles have been Masticated And extract the only explanation - The last loss, and more than wager, Just after, the “Last Supper,” And later cremation, “回家” (“return home”) When the wife fled, Took flight, and the children with her.

As bleak as that midnight may be, It was actually his day, the next, Considering, taxis, vectors, meters, Near centimeters and a miss; Fortitude favoring fender Whilst allowing for one more Skip-or-two, sacrifice or two, Smile or two, whatever or two! One more, “AHAA!”

“AHAA!” So long as, “疯’d” (“Feng’d”) breath. “AHAA!” So the rest of the stories would too. “AHAA!” For the sake of, “Aha!” And “AHAA!” in an echo, years later.

I felt the end of Time inside her; fallen and Knowing eternal.

All I’d whisper was - “Complete,” inside her; deeper Our seed, tomorrow.

She whimpers atop Stairwell. I pass by. Never To heed, her one lonely tear.

    - H.H. (2014)

Worship was fingers Awry offering baskets, Blasphemy, greed, green,

And all other things idle in faith.

I’d have felt bad, but I didn't.

I didn’t, knowing the half-eaten meal, they’d pray before.

I didn’t, knowing the priest and his post-confessional proclivities.

I didn't, knowing the differences between practice and preach.

I’d have faith in being faithless.

And I’d have gospel within the grip of

Each

And

Every

Awakening.

His tumor caught up; Laughing, with tears atop cheeks, I’m deplorable.

I’m dead.

He’s dead;

And with a million tomorrows by name of “regret.”