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Literature Text
Remember that little human
boy who couldn't read aloud -
who couldn't hold a pen
because his slick corn oil skin
kept sliding past itself?
Boy, oh, boy.
And he was born a hundred
years too late for his cowboy
dreams. He rides herd on the
maybes and the somedays.
He sang a knife song - one
that sliced up the rigid spines
of teachers and parents alike
and parted them before him
like God-spoken seas.
Deft elision somewhere between
his teeth and tongue, lyrical, his
words in other men's mouths.
Knife song honed with lime,
polished with manteca.
Literature
Combat Zones
He wakes up in Vietnam every night,
boot-clad feet trudging over mined ground,
trigger finger numb, back sore,
fatigue drenched from the monsoons,
and he prays to go home to her.
He finds himself next to her every morning,
dark bags under her eyes telling him
his twitching kept her awake again.
At breakfast she throws the dishes
and cries as the china shatters against the wall—
cries that she’s living in a combat zone
with a man who’s battling himself.
"Is there anything more destructive
than war?" she asks, and he looks at her
and says, “Love."
Literature
In Hindsight
I'm not ready to meet you yet,
I need to have a mental breakdown
Or two
That I'd rather you didn't see.
You can meet me down the road
When my mess is just a story,
Part of my mysteriously alluring past
Not the painfully present now
It will seem so romantic,
My idealised mental anguish,
When you don't have to deal with it
Day after day
I'm sorry to tell you,
But please come back later
When I'm a bit saner
And you somewhat braver
And both a lot easier to love.
Literature
The knife
A
Drop
Of my
Blood
Falls
To the
Ground.
Breaks
The soil
Never to
Be found.
A single
Drop not
More nor
Less,yet
Still in
Time and
No regret.
Open
Wide
The
Heart.
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Comments6
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"He rides herd on the maybes and the somedays." Yep, you got me. Now if I could become the breaker of rigid backs and rulemakers.