Day Number Two.

On day number one:
you’re the Earth, moon and sun,
you’ve invaded your way,
into the folds of my brain;
and it’s all I can do,
to go without for a day –

Day twenty-three:
this isn’t working;
you need to let me be,
…breathe, …breathe
get your face away from me,
yeah, I remember,
but I was amiss,
while we built up to this;

Day sixty-two:
believe me,
I wanted it to be true;
wanted Father Time to,
eventually prove,
that you would be,
a novelty,
a relic of my youth;
the one I seem
to unfailingly,
return my sorry ass to –

Day one hundred and nineteen:
my teeth never stop grinding,
in the background,
buzzes the sound,
the unraveling of a wire,
a trip line quickly reeling; –

The final day I spent with you:
the house on fire,
smoke thick as glue,
we should have taken,
the fucking que,
we’ve been forsaken,
since Day number two.

Thinking and Speaking.

In a small circle broken only by,
the tiny space by which hopefully, I,
will make an escape at the end of my –
musings made public in the blink of an eye;
I lift my sword and point now,
to you: hazel eyes, six-foot-two,
you know exactly what it will be,
that I naturally recall about you…
the way that your shimmering eyes –
were a mask covering so many lies –
and how those lies eventually outweighed any truth;

Now, on to the one right next to the first:
top lip’s so tight his mouth might burst,
your body language says that your brain works fine,
the stance of your stature doesn’t look so self-assured,
you have kept your ignorance segregated, indeed –
by everyone – especially women – quite successfully –
that crap works great in the military, so why not go, soldier?

And on to the next obliviously smiling wise guy,
born and bred from the blood of some godly divine,
I’ve known of dead animals with better morals than you,
sporting tattoos that belong only in the skin of dead swine,
your very breath reeks of poisonous hatred –
a desire to destroy what any other finds as sacred –
wretched: your kiss is of Sulfur and your touch is of brine.

Fugue.

Temper-treated,
pressed ‘n pleated,
pre-disposed and superseded,
diagnosed,
but poorly heeded,
over-psychiatrically treated,
super-imposed,
pin-up prose,
cake-layer completed,
centrally distributed,
locally re-heated,
self-stimulated,
pseudo-violated,
over-chewed,
nearly spewed,
swallowed up,
oh fuck – regurgitated,
won’t sit well,
if stacked up to,
the tried and true,
another epic fail,
shoddily fabricated,
horizontally situated,
systematically nauseated,
linguistically and verbally inebriated,
an atrocity,
a featherless Crane,
singed into the brain,
of the Herring,
a forsaken queen,
been busy,
out bone-collecting,
well beyond her means,
never satiated,
by her plundering,
blindly placated,
by the obsolete,
of the broken-spirited,
broken down,
rotted through,
to an army paraded,
beneath the sole of my shoe.

Big One-Eight.

lock_2_by_prophetharm-d7u8tmt

The day that lands on May thirteenth,

will be a very memorable one, indeed:

after all these years of waiting separately,

my little girl finally turns the ‘big eighteen’;

The anticipation that grinds behind her release,

is stuff that’s enough for the death of Yours Truly,

my heart pumps to keep up with the thumping beat,

but it’s barely enough to keep my blood flowing freely;

Her entire life, we’ve talked about its eventuality:

silly things she and I would do on this day, specifically:

create the biggest ruckus seen in recent local history,

roll around with the windows down in a rented limousine;

We’ve joked about obnoxious face paint we’d be wearing,

the gaudy jewelry that I brought to her from New Orleans,

spend hours doing nothing but her very favorite things,

truth is: I won’t even get to see her – and that’s our reality;

She will take her newly granted wish of finally being free,

and run with it as far and quickly in a direction away from me,

it might be years until I see her face again, if I’m so lucky,

her lack of any self-esteem or worth keeps her far, historically;

My little girl exists within a place that she can only be,

the pages of the Missing Persons reports, filed repeatedly,

the hours between the sunset and the next day’s dawning:

she’s in there somewhere trying to find any kind of meaning;

This day has long been a source of a most primal fear in me,

the burdens carried so long will either hold or break clean,

from the chains that have rusted around them quite solidly,

the very last of my chances to find the daughter that I seek.