Skip to main content

Over a Dish of Fruit

"My father is a shell.
My father is dead."

Droplets fall from her brown
Skies. Eats ripe grapes that
would have been wine.

"Stories are all we have.
Don't you understand?"

"Stop saying that."

Trembling. A lonely winter
Alder, shaken by Northern winds
Here in the land of endless sun
Where heroes go to die for women
And Water; God and glory.

Forks clang against porcelain plates
Cutting wedges of watermelon, its
Black seeds float in pink sweet juices

Nearby desert aches for the sowing
Soon to be suffocated with parched tan
Sand. Voices cry out 'Whatsoever a man
soweth, that shall he also reap.'

"Now. What do you have to tell me?"

A bastard prophet, wanders, thirsty
For truth. Removes his sandals, weeps
Gnawing the earth, as the desert catches
Ablaze.

"I can't. Not here. Not now."

"I already know."

A Heaving like rock slides. Tumbling.
Rolling. Crashing. Thrashing. Echoes.
Silence.

"I'm leaving you."

"I knew. I knew it."

A city crumbles to skeletons.
Memories now. Ruins that are buried
With time. Only visited, never lived.

Empty grapevine. Strawberry tops sit
like green stars, sopping up juices
Uneaten.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Hey there! Thanks for linking my blog. Keep up with the good writing.
I'm actually ashamed that I haven't been writing as much as I should though.
August 20, 2008 at 6:05 PM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Inside

"There's a chaos inside that 'll not die down." Unsteady gale wind whips at hair rips souls from their bones leaving corpses of naked bodies curled and crying, wet and muddy Blackness, sound of breathing a scream that wallows, tares from the intestines spewing brown bile, lead heavy words "You'll not drown in a wake of your own making." Shoving gravel through eye sockets, dreading tomorrow caught in a web of mucus, rotting tobacco leaves, dust of glass sprinkled on tongues Empty bottles of fire sing heavy somber tunes, tumbling off the end of the earth, cutting the heads of goddesses bathing in the stars "Turmoil inside suffocates tomorrow and the next." "I know."
Post a Comment
Read more

Voices

The doctor doesn't seem to understand. Says I'm off. Not quite right. Thin sheets are always talking to me. Voices of old French philosophers and Pompous Englishmen discussing some Colorless Male Burden. Killings and Sexings have been whispered Across candle light by thin wild haired Depressed Americans who rock menacingly Staring at the sky. Waiting for black birds Eyeballs and blood Baritone Black men tell me about blues Grassroot hallucinations speaking through Hazy browns and chaotic melodies "Jazz," she says, "Strange Fruit," She Says. Women talk of the domestic This fucking wallpaper That fucking husband Doctor just doesn't seem to understand. I refuse to enter a library until all these Voices wait their turn
Post a Comment
Read more

Rusty Muffler

My roommate was nearly killed by a rusty muffler. My rusty muffler. It tumbled, and ricocheted off wet pavement right at her She laughed. Brought the broken pieces by hand, said I'd fix it someday Radio's never worked, orange lights illuminate buttons that have no use, they're pretty in the night reflections Broken knobs flick them on and off on and off on and off on and off Before my muffler's attempted murder a chorus of tired pistons, rubber belts, fluid cylinders, mechanical leavers and stuttering window wipers occupied the cabin hall Now there's only a rumbling to be heard beneath my feet, loudest in every gear rattling organs under thin layers of fat It chokes the need for talk We are taken by the roar from place to place, I flick the orange button lights on and off on and off on and off there's need to yell at times "stop it..." I follow the white lines with my eyes until home, the howling dies, our voices are left to fill the void We listen to ...
Post a Comment
Read more