STRANGERS OF FRIENDS

So, yes, I burned

The bridge some twenty

Paces back,

No regret,

Without hesitation.

Anger, mixed with

Despair allowed me

To wash my hands,

Clean of a score

Of years of memory.

The links--

Once golden,

And highly prized--

Are covered with dust,

Consumed by

Cobwebs

Of silence.

I knew what

I was doing,

With an evening’s

Anger still in my head,

Simmering for hours--

Too hot to touch.

When I left,

When I lit the match

And watched the flame

Greedily devour all

Secrets, unbreakable

Bonds

That would forever

Separate me

From a childhood friend.

We weren’t kids

Anymore. We were

Building diverging

Lives where

There would be no

Spare room,

No empty chair,

No place to sleep,

Or talk

Until dawn.

Strangers, once, we

Are strangers once again.

Copyright © 2011 by the author

UNTITLED III

Iron-scented anger,

Metallic despair

Never ceasing

To flow,

To rush

Through miles

Of subterranean,

Subdermal tressels,

Content to move,

To cleanse,

To carry away,

Transport oxygen

Until

Emotion pierces

The sky

Allows blue

To become

Red,

Because words

Are not enough,

Tears

Are not enough.

Connections

Between

Thought and

Action are

Broken,

And reality

Derails.

Pain exchanged

For pain,

Heartbreak

For skin cutting--

Soul-slicing.

The body heals itself:

Why can’t the heart?

No answer comes.

Copyright (c) 2011 by the author

HOW DOES THIS GARDEN GROW

I want to

Plant stones,

And have flowers spring

To life in every color

Stolen from the rainbow.

Do the leprechauns know

That their gold is now exposed?

Beneath the stones

I plant, where seeds

Slough off,

Life awaits.

Without stones,

Where will I find fire?

Without fire, how do I stay warm?

Cook food?

Sterilize my implements?

Without rainbows,

Where will artists flock

To gather visions

From the muses?

Where flowers grow,

Stones gather--

Names carved deep,

Final messages written

Stones from flowers/

Flowers to stones--

Life discarded

By the faithful

For the future-perfect,

Life dislodged from its pedestal,

And shattering,

Giving birth

To small stones--

Seeds of all kinds,

All colors,

Genus--

There is no such thing

As a weed

Arising from this soil.

Wildflowers only

How does this garden grow?

Copyright (c) 2011 by the author

MIDNIGHT RADIO

Pounding sound,

Percussive,

Persuasive

Propulsion

Instigating

Movement.

Instinctive retreat:

From a distance,

Perhaps

The pulse

Gains clarity,

Loses its threat,

Gains its value,

Recovers its beauty,

Recording its passage

A wave

To break

Against a shore

Somewhere

Distant,

And a harmony

Can be found

For what is now

Just Noise.

Someone feels a need

To share their playlist

As the calendar flips,

Digits roll,

Dreams meld, one

Into the next,

Windows are open,

Freeing this cacophony

To find its way

Out into

The cosmos,

Wave after wave

En route to

The beginning of time.

Billions of

Eardrums

Yet to

Be pierced.

COPYRIGHT (C) 2011 by the author

WINTER FRUIT

(for North Dakota)

The river dances

With power

Of melting snow

Along

And threatens

To overtop its banks,

To wash away

Levies of sweat equity

To take adverse possession

If only for two weeks--

Or maybe four,

Maybe six--

Before relinquishing

Its occupancy

Of houses, farms, fields.

Fear runs

As cold as the water,

As fast as the current,

Southward,

Eastward,

Westward--

Wherever

It can carve a channel,

Cut its way

Into the heart

Of a life

That it once

Bordered.

Cold, cruel fluid,

Moving quickly,

Carrying

Winter out of spring

And into summer.

They dream hopelessly

Of binding up

Wounds,

But wait

For winter’s fruit

To fall

Before new life

Can be replanted.

Copyright (c) 2011 by the author

A MADNESS

(for Melissa)

Within the safety

Of madness,

No words need be spoken:

All doors and windows

Are secured,

Keeping the world at large

At beigh.

The words bounce,

Breaking down

Into syllables

Without meaning,

Sounds without

Translation--

There is no dictionary

For the pain,

The confusion,

The fear

And anticipation.

Not all doors

Are physical,

Wood or metal,

Accessable

Withselected keys

That hang from a ring.

No reasons,

No stories,

No contact allowed,

No affection,

No attention to be paid

To ragged rage,

Slender fear

That slithers

Up and down

The spine,

Along the tongue,

Entangling,

Eating wordswhole

With one quick snap,

Leaving

Bitter silence.

COPYRIGHT (c) 2011 by the author

I have power

Thank God

For the words

That keep

My blood

And bone

Safely contained

Within my skin.

Words on the page

Are equivalent

To a cut

Intentionally inflicted.

When the words

Won’t come,

This is when I am afraid.

Without language

To spill onto the page,

All my insecurities

Race back

And forth

Between

Brain and fingers

In search of

An exit.

Words--

His words--

Free me

From my demons,

From my hatreds,

From my loves,

From my hurts.

September 30, 2010, the last

Infliction,

My last relapse,

My last raising

Of questions

For which I had

No answer.

A public act

On the bus

On my way home

After my first class.

Why?

How?

No hiding--

I wore a sleeveless dress,

Cut myself on my shoulder

With my house-key.

I found blood--

I saw red--but

Was unsatisfied,

Uncalmed,

Unimpressed.

And so,

I stopped

Though the reasons

Haven’t changed,

The impulse still comes,

The emotions still rise.

“Leave me alone: I am

Enjoying this day,

This life,

This choice.

Leave me alone.”

And the demons--

They listen.

I do have power.

Copyright (c) 2011 by the author