Behind cracked glass.

The soft indentation, between this

locked room, and the glass commotions

extending outwards like interlocking fingers,

beyond this tired empty din

raging on wards in its trailing grey scale,

detailing nostalgia as a moment

of relief -

distracting, reminding, clattering

of the hollow heart, and the falling edge,

and the expanses, pressed outwards in jagged cuts..

(of writing etched

into the ceiling

above us, or below

as we dreamt,

as we lay counting the cracks

in the checkered tiles

of alternatives endings,

faltering birds.)

The smoke rings and the fallen glisten

wetly upon our skin, like wishes pressed up

and against the deformed reflections

we watch others through -

in pale imitation advertisements

and neglected shop windows,

peeling faded newsprint, chipped counters..

As we wander the alleys like wraiths,

taken and stretched out,

beyond reason, beyond dishonesty

tangled nets of impacts and repercussions,

moth wings in our mouths -

and the dust

rubs off

and we can’t help but catch

every passing feeling,

subtle poetry in expressions,

taking too much

to heart..

(And even through we learned

through trail and error/error/error

to sift -

this shell shock doesn’t ease,

this shrapnel holds its ground

beneath the skin we wear.

All those sudden hits/

and misses...)

When the darkness comes in

like a thick, slick, thirsty leech

dressed in a black suit and heels,

to teeter through our heads unbidden

like loss tearing stitches,

like a smooth infiltrator,

like the empty echos remaining,

a mess of tangled, cutting threads..

we can wave our hands all we want.

This visitor ain’t no wasps.

Like the ghosts, they walk through walls,

and come at us sideways,

sneers revealing baby teeth

and rust smeared hissing vents.

Seeking, ever seeking our most vulnerable,

indescribable hours..

Los lobos standing barefoot in the frost,

at our door, patiently waiting

until

we have no other option left

but to open it,

and face ..

It’s that sinking feeling you get, when you

drown in a dream

but no matter how oppressive the current,

the rebellion in your bones

drives and burns un-apologetically -

that unrelenting determination

to fight fight fight

the captors and win

win against them;

this uninvited arrogant censor

this wall dividing

this glass prison

this gutter poverty

this ridiculous presumption

this trickle down theory

this quicksand playground

this insidious phantom

this self contrived trap

this unfounded slander

this chemical imbalance

this systematic oppression

this faceless false seer

this sheet metal skin

this unravelling touch

this

heartbreak we know

will never leave us...

A song of variables shifting

against a backdrop of muffled

persistence born in these metaphorical cages,

wrapping upwards and around

our arms like wet gauze and antlers,

reaching down our throats

to pick up, pick out, with little quick snips

of precise, careful, merciless fingers

those raw shards of thought,

still burning hot..

And make the extraction..

To relocate, re-purpose

scar tissue into brightness;

new aims, new words, new goals

new meanings and revived drives,

born of honesty and purpose and heart

to counter the adversary

and make stars out of gasoline..

Fleeting perhaps, but like our lives

continuing on wards from moment

to moment

to

driven

like a jackal

before flames.

X