Friday, July 19, 2013

Words


I walk into the street armed with words I wrote last night.

They are my bronze armor when dark befalls on frigid winter days.
When thoughts of an unredeemable past resurface,
Their company disarms anger, soothes the hurt,
Laces details into the larger tapestry.  

Alas, they
Often rebel.
Solemnly refuse to
Offer any consolation,
They                        just                     sit there                            and sit
Their commanding presence nearly a declaration of war
Each letter              s                t               a               r                e                 s
At me insubordinately,
Void of resonance,
Indifferent to my pleas.

Unburden me!  I demand.  Set me free!
Absolve my faults,                                       
Redeem it all!

Silence in response.
Letters curve in                  
Meaningless twirls;
The magic wand devoid of magic.

Shieldless, I cower at my doorsteps like a swordless worrier.
Met by shrewd winds, and
Strangers milling in the streets in the millions.
I turn to flee.  Back indoors! feet are commanded.
Wait, a thin voice arises from the lamppost a step away. 
I near it; the black metal is cold to the touch, quiet to the ear.
Yet I wait. 

The sun moves away; shortly, dark will fall.  I tighten my woolly hat.
And wait.  Incapacitated.  Night takes over. 
All alone in a bitter streetcorner. 

Then some slight movement underfoot.
Or am I imagining?

Slowly they start rising from the pavement,
Dropping from the awnings,
Leaping out of my coat sleeves.
Forming into
Lines.
Playfully
Coil and whirl; my eyes twitch, birthing more letters,
Flowing down my cheeks.  My neck, wet with words.
I bleed, I vomit; sentences stream out in
Spasms of sweat, my head implodes
With tidal surges.
The street is inundated
With waves of tales.

Pedestrians flee, cars loudly screech, the ground shakes,
A roof nearby caves in, rats run out of their burrows.

Sufficed, I shake my stiff limbs and saunter down the street
With poise.

Armor at hand.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Happy Fourth!


 
A lazy Fourth, hot
as hell outside. (But I like this weather.)
Happy Independence Day, I say
to the dog; she raises
her heavy head and looks
at me puzzled. She is,
afterall, an American bitch.

All and sundry are now barbequing
in their backyards,
and the Boston Pops, no
doubt, are playing on the sizzling
esplanade by the everstreaming
Charles. Everyone is waiting
for dark to fall and the fireworks
to rocket into the sky, spewing
Mickey Mouse out
of a three-dimensional
cube wrapped in dancing ribbons.

Afterall, what is more American
than Mickey Mouse.

The dog and I doze off
to the light breeze fashioned
by the tired fan;
she on the rug,
I on the couch.

Independently.