How it Ends for Me

A small

rip,

then a little

tear,

and then another,

and the next thing I know

shredded

bits

go flying through

the air,

like a blizzard

of blood

kicking up ragged bits

of my obliterated

heart.

There is something

almost magical

in the

horror

and the beauty

of the remnants of my soul

as they lazily drift

to the ground

in sharply defined

stillness,

one so still,

even Echo herself

has fled.

The screams are gone now,

as are the tears;

I can find no more

inside me,

just a hazy maroon

sunset

of blood in light

fading into the darkness,

and the smell of

rot.

6-14-18

June 14, 2018 0

Her

The cockroach scampers

over a half-eaten

apple

on the altar.

The sick-sweet stench

of rot

hangs thick,

like a noxious

mist.

The air is littered

with dying things.

The wind shrieks

and there is a whirring

in my ears.

I can not keep

my balance.

Everything

breaks down

around me;

a rolling process

separating

what is

into less and less

substantial

forms.

I can taste the stale

mold,

dusty and choking,

its spores

filling my lungs.

I greet

Her–

the reality behind

life’s illusion;

its nourishment,

its origins,

as well as its

endings.

5-3-18

May 3, 2018 0

Humanity

Locked doors

barred tight

danger lurks

beyond sight

“progress” kills

nuclear war

oldest profession

that of a

whore.

2002

May 1, 2018 0

Origins, Then and Now

Then

Fantasies

of a piece long

lost

discovering its

puzzle.

The great

return,

where I make

sense

amid the teeming

masses

of confused

and confusing

humans.

Now

Fantasies ripped

and torn,

destroyed by the

one

from whose belly

I was

cut

before being sent

far away

to those who would

come to

regret their

purchase.

5-1-18

May 1, 2018 0

Let Them

Let the world

tear at me

from every side.

Let them burn me

in effigy.

Let them

hate me.

I am used to it.

Could it be

any other

way?

Silence,

I understand.

Taunting,

accusations,

and thinly veiled contempt,

I accept

as my usual

fare.

So let them.

Let them push,

and tear,

and burn,

and scowl.

I will still

be.

There is nothing

they can do

about

that.

4-6-18

May 1, 2018 0

The Year of Broken Promises

This was the year of broken promises,

the year of shattered illusions,

the year of systematic

pulling of the rugs

from beneath

feet.

Everything known is lost,

everything believed,

proved false.

All of the pretense

has been

stripped

bare.

Naked,

I stand before the mirror.

Alone,

I crumble or I rise.

4-2-15

April 26, 2018 0

The Torrent

A slow drip

at first,

and the groan

of bending

steel.

The drip becomes

a stream,

and the stream becomes

a river,

then the sound of tearing

metal

slices through me.

A crash,

and a torrent

of the washed up

dreams

and the shattered

stained-glass

walls

of my own broken

psyche

pour out

onto the street.

They slide into the gutter

and slip down

below,

with all the other

refuse.

4-25-18

April 25, 2018 0

Rescue 372 (Bibliomancy)

She had to stab her shaking thumb three times at the “end call” button before she successfully hit it, then almost dropped the phone trying to set it on the coffee table. She couldn’t stop shaking. I can’t believe I hung up on him, she thought, what will he do? She felt like she was drowning and wanted to claw at her throat. She closed her eyes and took some deep breaths, focusing on the out-breath while she clenched and unclenched her hands. He won’t go too far, she told herself, he might make threats, but he wouldn’t go too far. yet lately he’d gone much further than ever before.

An image wriggled in her brain like a worm. It was from a dream she’d had a few weeks back. A red apple, polished to a mirror sheen and placed on a dark altar. Associations branched through her mind like a fine web of cracks in glass, and she pressed her fingertips hard against her temples in an attempt to fend off a creeping headache.

She turned to the bookcase behind her and scanned the shelves. Her eyes moved past Herodotus, past Sartre, past even the Bard, until they found their mark. She let out her breath. Emily Dickinson. She reverently slid the book from the shelf, admiring the weight and the clean, hard cover. “The Complete Works,” she muttered. She read the words again quietly, like a prayer.

She lifted the book close to her face and fluttered the yellowing pages, inhaling the warm, musty scent of aging paper. She then lowered the book, slowly, carefully, and held it out in front of her solemnly. She paused, took a deep breath, and on the exhale she let the book fall open in her hands. When the pages settled she looked down, letting her eyes land where they would.

“This is the Hour of Lead–” she read aloud. Her voice thickened and her stomach tightened. “Remembered, if outlived…” She sunk to the floor and read the whole poem from the beginning. “After great pain, a formal feeling comes–” She read the poem over and over again, until the rhythm and the meaning and the sounds of the words came together and washed over her like waves, pulling her into resignation, and a focused silence.

4-25-18

April 25, 2018 0