Frost crept inside the mind
Of a desperate young man
Who craved some response
And over. And under. And moves
But this numb-fear battle-ox.
For the buckeye the winds create less havoc.
The birds are lifted out of harm’s way.
Look, most of it will mend.
Listen to the whisperer
Who keeps a quiet vigil
Still loves you.
But the dog whistlers
Farm us into submission
alarm and raise our heckles
Til we crave our own blood
And weep with the taste of it.
Wolves we are in the whispering woods
Our guts quietly spilling
Through to the roots
We hear only the distant whistle
fear and crave its blood promise.
Tears are offered here
This place, our sacred stage
Where I give my name,identity
You offer yours in surprise aside
Our business, our status, what forces at play?
This prologue, these tragedies, these years brought forth
To day, this still gathering of mourners
Cry, greet, keep your lines and destiny
’til you are so familiar with them, and this strange other,
You cannot speak nor see him as anything but your brother.
You say you’re here, with me
Wherever. You say what time?
I say, whenever. You say,
You need to know for sure.
I say, whatever, whatever.
You were (here, I should explain myself) always there,
Like a familiar song (there’s something almost on the tip of my tongue) that offers connection.
Context (this soft light is on us) is, of course, essential.
How can we begin (if we’re both listening)?
What can be said (with the desire to impress the other) that hasn’t been said before?
This (never mind the emptiness where depth offers possibility) place where familiarity dies (my vanity, ego, delirium) is loneliness.
I was told to leave it outside
It was bound to get in the way.
I used to think that would be nice,
But dream on. It’s here to stay.
Now I realize it’s essential,
You mustn’t nurse it.
That overblown balloon. Burst it.
Let it float up to the corner of the room.
A drone. And be the first to pop