MEAT/BONE

Teeth pulling, tugging at the skin.
Tongue lifting it up, so that teeth can find better purchase.
Flesh slowly tearing away in jagged strips.
Blood rises up and pools around the nail.
It tastes warm and metallic in my mouth.
I move from one finger to the next.
Each one a small sacrifice,
Blood and Flesh.
An offering to what, and for what,
I do not know.

The remnants--gristle and bone,
That's all that is left.
A few ragged pieces of flesh still cling,
But most have been cleaned free.
My hands cast grotesque shadows against the wall.
Blood runs like strings,
A macabre marionette.

The pen slips from my hands.
Not so easy to use, to hang on to.
Paper streaked in crimson.
What makes it down is unintelligible,
Painted in gore.
Painted with life.

BURNING THE WORLD DOWN

New world burning
Horizon line on fire
Lit up
Glowing orange, silhouetted
Shadows dancing back and forth
Across the ground

Smoke draws up and in
Blanketing everything
Look up
The moon above is nothing
Barely a milky white cataract

Swallowed up whole
Ingested alive
One scream drowned out
By the thousands of others

A grey void with no reference point
Save the tree line in the distance
Back lit and bathed in the orange glow of the cleansing fire

Soon you will have purpose
Soon you will be fuel

A bright point on the horizon for another

Dreams II

Last night it was her. No, it was them. Some sick composite. One morphing into the other, fluid and liquid. No definite line between where one ended and the other began. There was a calculated cruelty in their eyes.

The house was hers, though, the first one. So was the father, I even called him Peter. I think that I might have called her by her name too, or referenced it, or maybe just assigned it after, later, in the dim light filtering through the blinds, in the haze, the muddled middlewhere.

The specifics are hard to grasp right now, every moment makes them slip farther away. I remember that house, a bedroom, a pool out back, and a chain link fence on either side of the yard running back farther than I could see. Bamboo mats, faded and dried by the sun, were tied to the fence. She was there. It was over, but it wasn’t. I knew better, knew that I should leave. That what I was seeking there would never be found, only dangled in front of me, just out of reach. But for some reason I was there. She made me suffer and delighted in it.

Other things are coming to me in a flash. How they tie in, and where they fit I have no idea. I’m not even sure if they are accurate. How can I be sure of anything right now? I see a strip mall parking lot. The roof of the building a red Spanish tile. Garish and somber. My view of the place is from a canted angle in the parking lot looking towards the building. The shot tilting up and to the left. Almost like a crane shot. Signs in yellow cut-out letters flicker above the store shops. She/they aren’t in this segment, not physically, but their presence overshadows the whole thing.

The only thing that was a constant was the eye color. The eyes were always brown. On that level it was always her. On that level it makes sense. It was always her looking at me in that way. Nothing else has ever made me feel so disarmed, vulnerable, hated and worthless. If you have never been there, then there is no way for me to make you understand. It is something that can only be achieved through experience.

I could do nothing but follow her around like a broken dog that knows nothing but the world, and hand, of his cruel master. Every part of me wanted to leave, to break free. All night this level of helplessness and humiliation is what I lived.

In the morning I woke jarred, with a hurt that ran from the hollow of my chest to behind my eyes. Scooped out and numb, the rest of the day I walked around skull-fucked. In my waking hours I refuse to give them any such power over me. At night, though, they worm their way out of my subconscious, tormenting me in that semi-lucid mire, body slicked with a cold layer of sweat, I know it for what it is, and yet I can do nothing but wait for it to play out.

I am shrink-wrapped in exhaustion.

Dreams

Dreams... I have them too. They plague me nightly. They swarm in on me as soon as I fall asleep, and relentlessly tear through my mind until I wake. Always, they are of pain, loss, suffering, and violence. They often feature those people who are in my life. The cast is an unpredictable rotation through the night, or from one night to the next. These dreams make me loath sleep, though, they have become the only companion that I can count on every night. their fidelity is unsurpassed. Because of them, there is no rest in my sleep. I wake more exhausted than I was the previous night.

Dreams... I know them too well. The word is usually associated with optimism and hope for the future. I know the ugly truth behind the facade. It's a false promise to lull you into a false sense of security, only to crush you from the inside out.

Hollowed Man

I walk around empty, eviscerated, with nothing inside that gives any comfort or lets me know. I can see my reflection, hear the rustle of my clothes as i move, or the sound of my shoes on the pavement when I walk, all indications that I am here, moving through the day to day. But, I feel none of it. Detached, I see it all through a remote feed.

I have very little interaction with others on a personal level. I have no use for any of it, and no one has a use for me. They might think that they do, until they get close. Then I start rotting them from the inside out, without fail. The smart ones cut and run, out of self-preservation. The ones that don't wither away, or smash themselves against me and break into pieces.

Each time they take a little more of me with them. Each time there is a little less of me left. Each time I have less to give to the next. The cycle is continuous, feeding on itself. My awareness does nothing to help me break it.

As my inside empties I become more resolved. My edges become harsher, sharper. I become a more effective tool for others to break themselves against.

I will continue to walk these streets in search of something to fill myself back up with. I yearn to be whole. I don't know if I have it in me, though. I might have been born lacking some key component, and will stay broken and hollow forever.

Mornings

It's the early morning. I'm the only one up. The fresh coffee, that first cup. The sun comes through the East windows. Everything is golden and illuminated. It's quiet. The kind of quiet that affords a peace that can be broken at any moment. Its fragillity makes it all the more special. Things don't matter, just the peace, the quiet, and the solitude.

With the crack of the door, its handle turning, life resumes. Another person's feet pad down the hall, the bathroom door closes behind them. The sound of water running in the sink, broken by hands lifting up towards a face, splatters and pats. Sound effects narrate actions. The spell is gone.

The coffee pot is now communal. No longer a personal cauldron of inspiration. The kitchen is not a retreat for refills, but a pit-stop--a weigh side for refueling. The sun has risen above the windows.

Everything moves on.

Love Letter

She opens it by running her finger nail down the side of the

envelope. The paper tears jagged and curls under her nail. The

outside of the envelope is plain, white, with no markings or

writing other than the address and a postage stamp. She brings the

envelope to her mouth and blows into the end that she has torn open.

Her breath fills the inside, expanding it with life.


The letter is three pages, folded over in the middle. It is

hand written. She can tell from the black ink that bled through,

leaving ghost mirrors of the words written on the front. She pulls

the pages from the envelope, laying it on the table. She grips

the letter in both hands, on either side of the pages, unfolds them

with her thumbs and forefingers.


The paper, yellowed, looks old. She recognizes his hand

writing immediately. She reads each line slowly, as though it might

disappear when she finished with it. The dark, black ink that he

used, that had bled through to the back side of each page, is from

the only type of pen he liked to use. Her thoughts turn to how funny the

little things are that make a person who they are, who you love.

Things like only using one type of pen. But, those are the things

that we cherish about them.


Some of the words are smeared. He was left handed, and if the

ink didn't dry fast enough it would smear as he wrote. In the left

margin running up and down the pages are faint letters, picked up a

line or two earlier, stamped on the page by the palm of his hand.


Once finished reading the letter, she reads it again. It

says what every love letter has ever wanted to say. All the things

that people try to accomplish in love letters but fail at, coming

across as forced or cliche, was inside this letter. The pages

start shaking in her hands. Her cheeks wet, and her bottom

lip trembles. The power and emotion of the letter is that

strong. Her knees give out and she falls into the chair at the

table.


It has been a little more than a month since she received the

news about his death. He had been over seas on business, and died

unexpectedly. She doesn't like to think about it. The nights are

the worst. She has been expecting this letter. She had given up

hope. The hope of one last word, one last time with him.


The letter makes the nights a little better. She reads it

every night before lying down. When she finishes reading it she

places the letter under her pillow. She falls asleep lying there

thinking about him. Sometimes it takes minutes,

other nights longer. But it's never like that first month. The

letter has a calming effect that counters the spell that night-time can

have. The one that brings to life all the horrors that stay below

during the day. I can't say what was in the letter, not exactly.

And, I won't insult it by trying to write something in. It was just

a love letter, the love letter. The one that we all have in our

hearts, but can never seem to put on page. But, he did, he found a

way.