POETRY!

BURNT HALO

fuzzyheaded kids on knees watching toons over bowls of mush when sunrays warm toes and limbs and curiosities lying elsewhere in swimming pools and treetops and trails leading to places not fully known like the camper in the woods reeking of murder with shiny black crows screaming on wrangled branches of old oaks coarse frightening words not understood but felt in the bones when one boy shouts and another sprints spreading shockwaves of chaos like stomps on ant mounds leading to winded laughter and embarrassed acts of premature manhood like pitching stones at abandoned windows and carving FUCK on a telephone pole with a shard of broken beer bottle thrown wayside wondering all the while if this is what it means to be unaffected by the fear and desperation grownups feel and keep secret from kids by knowing how to drive and shave and write checks with blank faces gliding through time as though they were born with the abilities of adulthood oblivious to their own denial when they themselves cry to a god day after day after day behind closed eyelids wishing for more of this and more of that excess hoping for a mercy they no longer believe in except when looking into the bright eyes of the sweaty dirtclod kids filing in at dusk after the longest summers day spent swimming and climbing and exploring the worlds their fathers built with bare hands pounding on skulls in idling cars resting in driveways for families needing to eat and feel safe and loved on a dying celestial rock that morphs and rotates every day without ever explaining why why why does the sun fall so fast over our heads like a burnt halo made of smog and palm leaves

WHAT YOU WILL REMEMBER

Your parents spent on love—
every last cent.
The apartment
and your innocence up for rent.

Janey-Pie in her crib hugging Blanky,
smiling obliviously.
Obviously, however,
all is not well on the home front.

Clothes, toys, and junk
spread out hanging,
dangling from every space
like flannel snow underfoot.

Your acute angle of vision,
swaying, shifting
slowly back and forth:
Mommy—Daddy—Mommy—Daddy.

So close, face to face,
yet not embracing.
So animated, like clowns
we should all be laughing.

But this is the opposite
of opposites
attracting, my son—
this is the opposite of love.

FOREVER IS A CIRCLE

…a baby
is
born
to fly
is
to rise in the morning
each day
is
a gift of
thorns in a box are like
nothing else matters
when you’re on top
trampling
the competition is at
your heels move swiftly
when you feel
threatened
in
a turbulent ocean of
faces pass you
on the street you stop to feel
the movement of
your soul is morphing
into
sympathy is the manna that
god sent his sons and daughters to
a rock
is
a solid foundation
is what
we all need someone
to love is
all you need to see
the
faults crack open to
the core of the earth
is
a stage for us
to
perform
acts of
kindness admits us
into
heaven is
an ideal is
a revolution
of
the mind can
do
wondrous things
are
all around us is the sound of
music is
like rushing blood
the veins of the universe
spread
your arms open
to embrace mankind
is
to
forgive yourself
for
everything you have done
has been done
before
you
leave this place and
remember
life was good
and
you are full
to
the brim of time
is
death
is
not the end, but
the beginning
is
like you were
a baby
is born
to fly
is
to rise in the morning
each day…

SEPARATIONS

To separate two lives that lived as one—
that shared all love and pain, both day and night.
To drain their ripened flesh—sap every drop
of truths they knew and breathed as beaming youth.
Of this, a bitter cup, they drink the dregs
from promises they made in front of God.
What once was full with confidence and light,
is now a shredded sail in darkened seas.

They grip the hands of children, whom they formed,
and conjure ways to shield them from their sins.
They hope, in dreams, for better times to come;
for lungs that breathe and hearts that beat in tune—
a normalcy and luxury for those
who brave the waves and storms of growing old.

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