inequalities

remember everything, or nothing, same;
the arms we cross, we write our names,
the sands we tread have blown away,
and all the while whistles tunes
of marigold and dry skin gray.

call to me, i'm drawn to truth,
spoken by an anointed fool.
i've come to listen to wasted words,
awash in me the cries of birds;
in indecision animate
the unfolding fire of endless shame.

there we come to huddle 'gainst
one another's sagging breast,
but i cannot hear the wind for whispers.
between your breaths, the silence whimpers.
and then i'll come quite questioning
the realities that you've portrayed.
and all the more the empty roar,
the tug of better sense, perhaps.
of course, of course, it's all for naught;
the consequence of happenchance.

nonsense

all of this is nonsense, my dear;
it's all for naught, it's naught but here,
and since i'm told that wheres i've been
are uniform, and numbered slim,
i'm unsure, but my chagrin
is written on a page again.

seizure

when the room rushed a river exploded, when once the eddies broke
their slick wet concrete chunks blown far and wide, and then we choked;
an ill-met gaze, petrified, finds us wide awake.

a harrowing silence collapses the room to a point
between his eyes,
the faucet gushes hysterically,
the television cries;
muttering, trembling without a grasp
shuffling through some loony tunes,
but silence reigns throughout the room,
clock hands refuse to make their pass.

his gaze dim lit reverberates
an echoing laugh still parades and jeers:
night black pupils, Scythe and Hood,
a deathly glare, and there we stood.
when his mouth from out it spouts
bits of dinner and
in goes my sister's fingers
desperate,
he sinks forward like a child's old balloon, yet
all at once; a frightful rush
of plum red face and madness.

and soon the shudders, his rigid shell,
the house lights dim, the music ends
for the departure of a dear old friend.

our screams and incessant pleas tear his
hair and pick his skin
out from under our fingernails;
his teeth bared and bloodshot eyes brazen,
his arms brushing us aside,
raving like mad, baring his gums,
bursting our lungs with frantic circles,
a windmill tilts,
frustrating hapless attempts to help.

when he dies, the screams
degenerate into muffled cries,
sopping bare and clawing at our eyes
those cleansing tears trapped
beneath the fabric of our faces;

and then a cough says he's alive.

reliving, relieved, and somewhat revived
under grateful glances from tired old eyes,
half-hearted attempts to laugh past
errant hairs and awkward pauses.

father

the roar of the garage door rips
through the air, a veritable trumpet
blare, call to arms, reveille, a burst of snare-

beat of drum, steady rude:
the rumble of unison step as it forges
a pathway through the godly feud.

a boisterous voice
declares his toast, the lamps burst open,
wide as blinking eyes,

golden bright light streams and paints the ivory walls
dandelion.

"Drink to me, my Children three!"
the Pops of bottles' cork;
overflowing porcelain trough
and clutching dinner fork.

"Tonight, we feed upon the host of food prepared by
God's own hand entwined with the spirits of the Good!"
A bounty erupts from the clatter of burning pots;
as black as coal, they open up to bathe the quiet family
with an aromatic fantasy of salts, sugars, and saturated fats;
a moment's hesitation pause before they gorge themselves from the microwaved vat.