Concert

between the trees

Golden flecks of yellow crimson and sunburst blue phase across the walls in a brilliant choreography. Every passing vehicle illuminates the room, a flash of life, but only for a moment. It’s the kind of spectacle that succeeds a nightmare.

Another car flies past, uncaring and distant, growing more so with each desperate heartbeat. This time, the fleeting light paints a dark silhouette on the wall. A monochrome specter, pirouetting through every shade of our soul.

Inhale darkness.

Our lips stretch slightly and we try to shout. Nothing.

Exhale vivacity.

This time a semi passes, and the mass grows near. It beckons us forward. No longer spectators, we become performers.

It’s the kind of demonstration that we look forward to. The one that follows a dream.

Behold the Begrudger

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Photo credit: Tim Abbott

I envy the dark souls who beg for time,

The ones who spend them stoned out of their goddamned minds

Too beaten and bloody to face the next round of rapid purgatory.

 

I envy the saints who have no regrets.

They wave beautiful gifts of glory with eyes and mouths sewn blissfully shut,

Disoriented by the very light from which they claim liberation.

 

I envy the hopefuls who always stride forward,

Finding ambition amidst hordes of cynical fiends.

They’ll never descend.

 

I envy the boy who once had all the time in the world

A ghost of the past,

His light violently extinguished by the hand of the ones he loved.

 

I envy the miscreants who ask for forgiveness,

Scarring their knees on icy daggers as remorse consumes them.

The slain monster lays broken in its teardrop prison.

 

Though I envy not their revelation or rescue, their happiness or faith

But their willingness to live

Despite the spirit they lost mercilessly clawing for a way out.

 

I envy volition,

The gilded steps to tranquility,

For desire I have none.

Dinner for One

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It didn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude that

She was going to be alone the rest of her life.

Women just stopped approaching her.

It’s not you, it’s me.

 

Deep within a sugar maple forest without a spigot,

She felt worthless.

Her hair was too thin;

She swore she’s not pregnant.

 

At a firm 24, everybody she went to school with were

Either married or having children, while she sat

Drenched in barbeque tears, a book in hand as the

Evening news chirped on a greasy laptop screen.

 

Everybody else was too busy to reply to her emails;

The desperate phone calls and texts weren’t enough.

Preoccupied with mediocre sex and prescription drugs,

They all frowned behind immaculate porcelain masks.

 

A peek within the pink dollhouse would show a different story.

Their husbands were cheating.

And might as well kiss that promotion goodbye, for

The boss was requesting a naughty tit-for-tat.

 

It was a cruel daydream,

A cookie-cutter life of torpedoed self-worth.

Just wade through mounds of pity and shit,

Surely there was a life in there somewhere.

 

It didn’t take her long to realize that

Being lonely was not as grim as it seemed.

So she finished her book and

Smiled before falling back to sleep.

 

Forever alone.

 

 

 

 

 

Featured image was found here.

Regrets

I’ve never told her how I really felt. I never told her how frequently that her raven hair, in its mesmerizing glow, and her comforting voice appeared in my thoughts and dreams.

How I wish I could tell her how much I cared for her, how often I imagined a life with her. And never had I thought instead the life I would end up living would be one without her. Deprived of her soft touch. Devoid of that sweet perfume she sprayed on her neck. The world is a violent ocean of torment, an inescapable pit of regret and gloom without her radiant glow guiding me to safety.

I remember the last time I visited her. I can only remember her bleak frame outlined so shallowly on that bed, her hands lying limp beside her delicate figure. The final image I have of her is one of sadness and desolation – one of death.

I’ve never told her how I really felt. But if I were given another chance, I would say: Forgive me.

Rinse and Repeat

Pulsing surges of virulent passion clinch my soul. My body swells with sparkling foam, overwhelming my senses with jubilation and fervor. I can’t keep from groaning as my eyes roll back as the sensation causes every inch of my being to quiver. Places on my body to which I never have given a second thought tremble under the control of an erotic carnival ride.

Suddenly, images of my husband return to me. Memories of our blind date and my thoughts of love at first sight invade my head like a cynical film strip. Every second is another image, illustrating the security and compassion I felt every time he wrapped his strong arms around me. The warped picture show concludes with a flash of me collapsing at his funeral.

The carousel of recollection ends with a final DING. A pair of familiar misty gray eyes peer back at me, and suddenly the crying returns. Before he left my side, he blessed me with his spitting image in the form of a son. I can’t face the little guy without falling to the floor with regret and sorrow, but he needs his mommy. Only, mommy needs a few more days to lament before she loses her mind and does something she’ll regret.

With that in mind I rotate the knob and press start, restarting the washing cycle. I figure one more round before dinner won’t hurt.