150713A
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There is nothing gentle
about the hot mid day sun,
scorching, and burning,
making for a special type of loneliness.
A season for martyrs,
and the remembering of heretics,
for their courage as to differing
with blazing light of inquisitions.
Life seems shorter in the heat,
filling it with a kind of spent urgency,
causing every kind of embrittled wilting,
the way time wilts all flesh.
Bones feel broken on the rack,
of all of those impossible expectations.
Words gathering on the dry tongue,
the way birds gather around the fallen.
I needed you, but you had other plans,
leaving me to suffer in solitary abandon.
You had abandoned me
the way they abandon the dead.
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150713B
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It is always the second time
that is the real killer.
The second shot that is fired
from the barrel of the mouth,
percussion of the trigger tongue
against cartridge syllables.
The gathering up of the record,
as to various imposed monologues
disguised as communications,
addressed like any debris is addressed
when it is catapulted over walls,
as attention getting violence.
They bring out the dead,
from pristine torture chambers,
where everything is documented
and done according to the rules.
The scars are never visible,
and the coroner finds no real fault.
There are heaps of crutches,
abandoned by the curb sides,
where everything is tormented
beyond any definite recognition.
The tortured play things
remaining from tortured lives.
Every sort of difference,
held in strict isolation,
in fear of a plague of contagion.
It might catch on,
adding some color
to the colorless landscapes.
Paint by numbers people,
filling each other in,
according to a master plan
as to what goes where.
Brush strokes toying with the lines
of an almost, sort of, intimacy.
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150713C
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I avoid the too familiar,
knowing that it can be too seductive,
to various types of premature death,
that one would never recognize
before it is far too late.
It is all part of the same conspiracy,
which everyone is supposed to deny
any definite knowledge of.
One of the warning signs
being the lure of broken bits of history.
That lure of recovering some salvage
as to what one never really had any of.
The sort of thing that is best evaded
even in the realm of dreams,
as another knife in the back.
One knows a culture too intimately
by what it tosses away,
in a precisely predictable fashion.
Another way to suffer more deeply,
is to get ahead of it all.
Flesh has become transformed
into the wrapper of the package,
which gets stripped away,
to get what most everyone is after,
from somewhere.
I can only wait for you to arrive,
if I have never known you before.
It is the only way to avoid mistakes
that ought never to be repeated,
and that leave nothing that surprises.
I know they changed your destination,
before your time of arrival.
You went on to another station,
never questioning your ticket.
It is how they dispose of one or another.
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