he says, love is protest, why carry
a torch for death?
why count the scars
we keep in silence
attaching their limbs to broken words
in place of a melody?
each death is a different song
waiting for the skin
to be reborn
waiting for the night
to rename itself
with our blood
lift your spirit as high
as the mercy airplanes
dropping food and water
to the 40,000 Iraqui
men women and children
seeking reguge from yet
another religioius sect
bent on genocide
in the name of their
invisible God
put your heart where
your words are
all this killing in the name of God
be it Christian, Muslim
or somewhere in between
Buddha’s crossed legs won’t stop it
the Pope can’t stop it
the Koran can’t stop it
the evil inside man’s heart
began with the caveman
and waits the resurrection
hidden in a secret silo
with its missiles pointed
at God
It was his custom to soak in the summer evening air
reclining on the front porch sipping Old Crow & Coca-cola.
Being the only son still living at home…
and feeling sorry for him as I always did,
I felt obligated to pull up a chair and join him,
privately slipping a thin sliver
of windowpane acid beneath my tongue .
Though strangers, the two of us bonded
through the slow passage of time
with the steady flow of rot gut whiskey
steadily eclipsing a steel perception
like a black cloud
and the windowpane opening and closing
in my mind like the wink of a blind horse
just in time to notice his features meld
into the iconic image that graced the label
of his prized amber glass vessel
now shattered
across the concrete porch floor
like a carnival mirror.
I lovingly gathered up the pieces
and placed them on the mantel
above the fireplace.
Rusty Truck