Face of Mendacity.

Yes it has, and admittedly;

Come to pass unpredictably,

The blades of grass are far from green,

No matter how fast I rearrange things.

In a palsied flash I see everything,

I cry and I laugh at what it all means,

Hope gets smashed to smithereens,

a high-speed crash into humanity.

A skinned carcass hung out and withering,

A trophy the hunter left disintegrating,

A nothing that no one can recall clearly,

Something hung in the sun to spin limply .

Yes it does, and quite totally;

blows my mind dumbfoundedly,

spends my time confoundedly,

by stinging my eyes perpetually.

But the tears I produce don’t mean anything,

just another excuse to curse the deities,

my tongue’s gotten loose and lashed back at me,

for speaking the truth in the face of mendacity.

Face Plant

How much of our lives
Will become simply archives
How many more times
Will I forfeit what’s mine
With every passing night
Feeling homesick at twilight
Being anxious and uptight
Can’t say or do anything right.
And the moments still tick by
We both curse the same night sky
Before one of us will recognize
All the ways we jeopardize
The shot we had to eternalize
Has lost the chance to materialize.
And I wish we could rewind
Go back and redefine
We both tow an identical line
Attached to an internal deadline
Born of a universal design
That will eventually unwind.

Surreality.

Every day I see people who knew you in life, sometimes running into them for the first time in decades; and, they inevitably ask about you as if they expect to find out that you’ve moved away to Canada, like you always threatened to do. The news of your short battle and premature death unfailingly drops jaws all the way around, and I regularly find myself in the position of having to firmly convince someone that you are dead and gone: a highly dissatisfying instance for me.
At least once a month I see a dress or a couch or a set of dishes that oozes your still lingering essence, and this essence permeates my existence for some time – maybe an hour; maybe a day…and as much as it stirs the burn of the embers inside the firepit called Pain, I greedily and secretly lean into the heat because it’s the only way I feel like I still know my Mom. Like I still have my Mom.
Every single night I walk my dog down the street your house is on. Although somebody else lives there and its appearance has been drastically altered since you died, I sometimes see your faint ghost on the front porch doing a crossword puzzle. I see your ghost watering the lawn too, or occasionally it even excitedly waves a hand at me from across Camden Avenue in the darkness.
I catch myself more frequently spitting out random statements and sayings that were always unique to you, alone.
Things like,

“In like Flynn.”

Or I sing stupid bits if stupid songs like,

“Here we come,
on the run,
like a hamburger on a bun.”
Or,
“Jonathan Joe had a mouth like an O”

I know its really you speaking in my voice, but I wonder what any of it means.

I often thank the Gods that you and I were able to at least scratch the surface of our reciprocal amendments to each other before you died so horribly fast and miserably. I’m continually thankful that I was able to thoroughly explain myself to you after all was said and done between us, but before your brain got so full of metastatic tumors that you were unable to comprehend me. I’m ever thankful that your passing wasn’t during any of our many former years apart, and that I was there to hold your hand when you asked me to be, because I can vividly remember that you were afraid, truly afraid. You never lost face though, you remain a bonebreakingly strong idol of my candlelit shrine. And no matter what else life throws at me, I will meet my last day on Earth with your smile on my face and your strength in my bloodstream. And, while your death killed off parts of me and stole any comfort I knew in the big, bad world, I haven’t let it burden me.
Though, I still bitterly wish we could have had Christmas in Sutter Creek, but it wasn’t meant to be.
Every single day passes with a strangling sense of your absence. And some days, I find you staring back at me from a mirror or the reflection from a storefront window as I pass. The tiniest and subtlest bits of your essence still trickle from the hole that losing you that way has left in my heart.

Dearly.

The sun is burning
The life outta me
My hopes are turning
Into a dumb fantasy
My tongue is yearning
To set my feelings free
My bones are learning
The ache of maturity

What once was agreeable
Feels as off as it can be
The tragic unforeseeable
Seems more comfortable to me
Dreams once deemed unbeatable
Are dust beneath my feet
As I dig deep for the redeemable
Buried somewhere underneath

Thoughts like whispered voices
Fading into vague memory
Lots of different choices
Looked back on regrettably
A kaleidoscope of faces
Come and go while I’m asleep
My brain always erases
The things my heart loves most dearly

Nevermore.

One place stands
In a forgotten hollow
In the crimson tinged forests of Nevermore.
In the windows hang curtains
Hand stitched to perfection
To block out the sunshine
To shut out the truth.
Two faces, two hearts and two hands
Smothered in the sweetest honey
To make me retch everytime
Make me wonder who I am.
Over the door hangs an upside-down horseshoe
Rusted and weathered by lonely seasons
To remind the trees and birds and bees
That things will never be the same
Inside the walls dwell many secrets
Spicy whispers and midnight moans
Divulged to disconnected telephones.

Redress.

I wish you’d take me in your arms,
But I can’t have you touching me,
The thought of you makes my insides warm,
But such thoughts belong to memory,
The months have finally turned into years,
And been added to lost opportunity,
The hope that’s silently kept me here,
By the trunk of our once special tree,

Those were the days, weren’t they?

And I know you won’t see a drop of success,
With any substitute you stick in my place,
The lie that you’re living will never redress,
The tears you’ve tattooed to my face.

A Butterfly’s Wings.

I spent all of this miserable time,
With an eye ever watching what’s mine,
Oh, how these strong emotional walls,
Break to bits when they finally fall,
Watch as my own wrecking ball,
Bitterly destroys it all in due time.

Wildly employing harsh strategies,
Idly killjoying my fantasies,
See how the peace is so far gone?
The why and how, the right and wrong,
Unsevered ties to my tragedies,

No bottom to the darkened depths,
no solidity beneath my many missteps,
Hear how my world is death rattling?
See my walls of glass as they’re shattering,
Around the feet that the mirror reflects?

Like a fluttering paper in a wayward breeze,
Screaming answers to queries whispered silenty,
A blessing disguised as an atomic bomb,
To explode and expose what our oaths have become,
The violent detachment of a butterfly’s wings.