Thy Will Won’t Be Done.

My wrinkled face
is beginning to waste,
limp body, still hung,
on a squeaky clothesline,
that is tightly confined,
beneath a given thumb,
any part attached to me,
repeatedly gone numb,
neurons firing incorrectly,
missed the target,
subsequently,
my brain feels like,
a bowl of old pond-scum,
the day and night,
continue to come,
Hell or high water,
thy will won’t be done.

Anonymous.

“Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.”

~ T. S. Eliot

I believe
that so it goes:
the gift of humanity
is bestowed,
to souls with empathy,
and only those,
a carrot hanging,
a step ahead of me,
ever-dangling,
before my nose;
and not just mine,
but anyone,
from the assembly line,
from which I come,
we’re made to ache,
to hurt – to burn,
from day one,
to ride the wake,
to bend and break in turn,
until our last words,
to be heard,
have finally come;
the world is cruel,
unless you’re blind,
it’s a flea-ridden fool,
that succeeds the unkind,
it constantly bleeds,
sucks up my energy,
drains the tide pools,
swallows the sunshine;
for those like us,
nothing is anonymous,
nothing can ever be fine,
no peace,
as we sleep,
only the fire,
from the front-line.

Invasive.

I have my own invasive mass of cancerous needs,

dotting my insides like tumors to match yours,

but, mine won’t kill me – not yet at least,

they’ll grow bigger along with yours, though…

as time is inhaled into the night skies,

our allotment dwindles before our eyes,

I’ve always foreseen and known,

but could never fully imagine it’s blow,

like a repeated cinch around my throat,

the defeated pitch of my voice as I choke,

over words and feelings I can’t integrate,

in order to make sense of such sensible fate,

there is a break in the line,

if there’s no you in the future of mine,

there’s no way I will prove to be,

strong as I’ve always liked to believe,

without certain pieces of you ever-hanging,

like homemade chimes over my life,

a dreamcatcher made to be grasped at from my bed,

now, nothing in the Universe feels right in my head,

there’s a new hole somewhere in my soul,

of which spills out unstoppably –

my childlike love and adoration,

I miss you already, even as we plan Christmas,

even as we plan your death, together,

you apologize to me for dying of cancer,

a different person now, you feel bad and regretful,

for the fact that you will, indeed, be leaving me soon,

You whispered:

“…but, I’ve only myself to blame – I did this…”

as I put out a cigarette and wipe my face.

 

 

 

Howling At The Fucking (Super) Moon.

Caro il Lupo;

Do you know?

that you’re still alive?

Your humanity survives,

the time comes and goes,

tears spill from my eyes,

phantom penned poetry,

and unforgotten prose,

trickle from the winter skies,

like snowflakes on my nose;

a wolf-pack nurtured and led,

has slowly scattered and faded,

but when a full moon’s overhead,

we’re never too far separated;

we’re each still too humbled by,

the shine you put in every eye,

the words you spilled across our lives,

Marcus – your kindness thrives;

I know you’ve passed through this place,

your signature sizzles across the skies,

nobody can replace,

no pencil or pen can retrace,

your ink and quill still permeate,

you can still bring tears to my eyes,

Tonight’s “Super Moon”,

has me fucking howling for you,

head thrown back,

me, and the rest of your pack,

just like that, Marcus…you’re still alive.

I MISS YOU.

WE MISS YOU.

Wolf-Pack-Howling.jpg

Topsoil.

There is an ugly secret
In the form of topsoil
Piled upon the surface
At the site of your burial
Whenever I’m here I see it
As if I fall under a spell
I still can’t fully believe it
Despite what history must tell
It’s a very heavy mystery
So long later down the line
A burden shouldered perpetually
After a decade’s worth of time
I remember standing for hours
In that place right over there
Torrential rain and thunder showers
Soaked clothes and soggy hair
But I could never bring myself
To go from this place easily
And every time I’d finally go
The loss of you felt new to me
I carry your secrets
Kept as my own still
I harbour your worries
And I always will.

Bad Seed.

What were you expecting
by reaching out to me?
a disapproving stranger
without any sympathy;

I have nothing left to give you
you’ve stripped my being clean
Put that red hand back in your pocket
when you’re in my vicinity;

Your struggles and your sadness
are not lost on what I perceive
The creature you’ve turned into
was somehow born to me;

Yet, in spite of such genetics
you remain a foreign entity
I may be your mother
but my daughter is deceased;

People blame and name me
pass judgment cruelly
And perhaps, I am a failure
I don’t deny these things;

Whatever I stand up for
in the end of such tragedy
I will not be standing
for what you’ve grown up to be.

HATFM.

As I drove home late last night from the mountains, I saw you shining up there, almost full again…my heart became sore; and, I was in tears before long.

There’s nothing as awe-inspiring to the others on the road as the notice of a blubbering fellow driver, by the way. People become acutely interested in you suddenly when they fear that you are unable to see the freeway lanes through your tears.

I thought of Lionheart then, naturally…and his good fortune in love; I remember how you almost seemed to be “hooking him and me up” in the beginning of our friendships together, from so far away. Needless to say, that wasn’t the destiny laid out for us; but we have nurtured something special in terms of true friendship, instead.

I then recalled several conversations you and I had in the very short time that I was blessed by your presence in Life, as I have become blessed by its permanence in Death these days. I remember how much I admired your spirit and heart; you just seemed to ooze the very essence of all that is good and honorable in the world, and all that is true. I remember how you comforted me during a very, very low point in my Life’s painful pendulum – on a day when I was feeling especially alone and abandoned and hopeless. It was a holiday, a big one that you were celebrating with your lovely wife and family somewhere far from your place “high in the woods”. You made time to comfort me that day despite a bad weather day of traveling…you didn’t make a big out of it though; I hadn’t even known you were on the road because you had been so “present”. You always amazed me and left me with my mouth hanging open through your untouchable humanity, Il Lupo.

You were an amazing human being; I haven’t forgotten that, either; haven’t forgotten you for a single day. I think of Felicia often too, and wish I were in a position to drop in on her and just hug her once in a while. I do wonder how she gets on these days, without you. It hurts to know how robbed of so many things she was when you were killed. It hurts to know that she has suffered such a tragic loss in so many ways and must go on. I guess I hurt for her, mostly. I try not to think about your actual death and what it must have been like for you and your dog when you were hit and killed. I hope your suffering was short-lived.

Just know you live on in the hearts of so many of us, and always will, especially on a full moon.

 

Howling At The Fucking Moon, Marcus.