Suicide Series, Part I

Scratch your eyes out

To feel alive when the hand knows not its way,

When the shadows of friends keep skipping away

Leaving the tunnel half made,

You will know there’s no getting out

Of this cave without pain.

You will search in vain, following

Freshest air, the inkling of a spark,

The whispers of your prayers,

Only to find fouler darkness

As you fulfill a prophecy you never knew

Opening your irises to find

What tenderness blocks the view

Letting swell bloody tears.

The Vacancy Grows

To a vacuum in the quiet of evenings

Cooking alone recalling

The conversations we used to have,

Like the tasting of the sauce.

A sink devoid of dishes,

A room where all you left

Was 70 cents on the desk.

The tent was folded away,

The counter without crumbs,

Your generic teabags waiting for boiling water

On your return, at tea time.

Dirt Road Series, Part III

You clap

You pant

You raise your voice,

But I will not stop.

We are here to raise you up,

So get up yourself

Down that long gravel road

To town and back again

Hoping the eggs will make it

And you, before dark.

Dirt Road Series, Part II

You stand there begging

Pleading for there to be an easier way,

On the shoulder of the only road.

Your shoes show in layers of red dust

The toil of your walk. Your cry

Will not be assuaged by me.

Pushing against the corner of a fence

With the might of a dung beetle,

Trying without luck to forget about

The bloody wound on its shoulder.

I saw that Kilpspringer once, though,

I feel like I see her everyday.

Dirt Road Series, Part I

What is a hand in the air?

A second of force, 

slightest exertion?

It is less than the least, to say

You might not be alone, I saw

Your need, and we were here

In high-speed, passing neglect.

My Letter Arrived Two Weeks Too Late.

Today is the last time I’ll see

your birthday on my calendar.

Next year it will be left to memory and care

if its is to be kept and observed.

What I recall of what I wrote

means little in the light

Of the winter shade and the horror

That the lord has made.

In that time you have celebrated

Clasmir Palaski Day, but I wasn’t near

enough to give you a golden rod or 4H stone.

Even if the nurse’s head didn’t hang so low,

He still takes, and he takes, and he

Saw the texts but couldn’t read

And wondered all night if

Of you, again, he’d ever see,

As did I, he held my hand

Taking words, having left the screams.

We’re all beginners when it comes to love.

Home is Right Before Me

An inch beyond a step

But I can not reach it.

Running, kicking, pushing on

With all one’s strength—

To the left, to the right

In no direction do I arrive.

I can feel the breeze

It is clear as day

Yet invisible forces

Block the way.

Screaming at the top of my lungs—

The whole world gone fey—

For minutes at end, I learn

None finish feeling gay.

There will never be a reason for

Why we will die in mid air

Like this bee against the window.