Interstates play their own rhythm -
worn tires cross each block in the dirty
concrete road only years old,
but broken all the same.
The tempo accelerates with the gas,
as the radio sings things I've learned
because I've heard them for the last
twenty years, sang by six other men
and a great woman painting on a piano,
once upon a time.
Biting cold north winds held back
by volcanic flames scorching out of
my greenlit dashboard,
I wondered what to say
to you when you woke up;
because it would still be late October
and I have ever been useless
this time of year, just ask the ex-files.
When you returned to, you said first:
Verdant mountains burst to spring,
time dilated in ways
unpredictable by relativity.
So I said it was OK ~
the rhythm of the road playing on me;
nodding, weaving, bobbing my head,
steel one-hand grip, thumb tapping
on the wheel.
I looked at you and it was all right,
talking like that as the lights changed.
And you were home long before
I wrote the final lines to this song
that I will likely never sing,
because the song was stolen
by a broken Michigan highway.
All I know to do is
just let it play out
any way it wills.
I hear the piano playing see the sunset and smell the breeze wafting from the dragonfly’s wings.
Springtime tells us stories that smell this sweet, and so does an autumn sunset of the horizonless lake as the waves say hello and our feet see the sand for all the trillion miracles that it has always been,
eyes falling only to fly high again when the old mariner’s bell rings.
She screams at her nosferatu
on the threshold of her house
every night the ritual
needs more blood.
It's 3:00 am.
She throws a liquor bottle
it shatters to diamonds and mash
in front of his car door
screeching to departure on cue
I’ve seen her throw herself
on the rusting hood of his car
or smack his side window
with her open hand.
She has broken glass before
as easily as she's broken herself
and for the ground that she gained
she just as easily gave in
to the monster near dawn.
Together they rise each morning on cue
organs re-grown—limbs mended
faces vaguely human, bloodshot
axes grinding edge to edge
all day until the next dusk
when the beast roams again.
"The length of my life
and the day of my death
were fated long ago"
in the tall grass,
snakes lying in ambush.
Downhill, his every breath
a dead scream
twisting in vacuum.
Safety thumbed off,
at the imperious sun,
Up there, twigs snap.
He knew his job,
but did his duty.
Tonight my uncle died. He was a former U.S. Marine, died at home in the quietude of suburbia. I know nothing else to say but that he was a good man, a person who would never harm another living being, but was always ready to defend what he believed in and loved.
He'll be missed and thought of often, though he can now finally rest.