i cannot go on.

July 28, 2008

through the heat i trudge.
look at me, i'm raining;
watering this dry, dry ground.
with every step my strength is taken
drawn into the dust
which flies away; free.

i cannot go on.

my pursuer never stops-
not to blink, or sleep, or breathe.
arms outstretched, he moans and moans,
not for my death,
but that i am still escaping,
still running.

i cannot go on.

i will be consumed,
pieces of myself taken from me,
pulled with dull teeth-
drawn into that simple mouth.
my skin tingles,
waiting.

i cannot go on.

better to be eaten.
better to be torn to pieces,
to gorge this monster,
slowing it down, then to arise-
the unforgiven, the damned,
walking that shuffle-step.

i cannot go on.

For Renee [ poetry: what attacks? ]

The day we've all been waiting for
Addressed in movies, songs, and books,
Has come to our now-present's door,
Slyly, despite watchful looks.

There are no tripods, beams of light,
Our skies are flying-saucer- free.
They came to Earth a summer night,
To make their simple hostage'ry.

They came from planet aptly named
After the Grecian god of war
A heavenly body crimson-stain'd;
Burning bright vermillion star.

Perhaps they are around you now,
Over your shoulder this is read-
The unfamiliar firmly vow
To steal you from your creaking bed.

And when those bedsprings have released,
When your body's gone and left,
All the noises dulled and ceased,
Caused by fingers swift and deft,

You will be so far away-
In craft without easy depiction.
How long you'll be I cannot say,
This is a quick-writ work of fiction.

friday evening.

the fading sun
shines right into our eyes
and at the back of your neck,
which is still slightly damp from the washing.
the candle, the bread, and the bottle of water
sit in the still, solemn grass,
as scripture is read aloud,
and prayers said.

faux real.

authenticity-
is eluding me.

he wrote-

he wrote in the soft, warm, golden sand-

laughing youths smashed the words with their vigor and joy.

he wrote in the cool, moist grey mud-

lapping waves smeared the words slowly and meticulously.

he wrote in the consistent shimmering surf-

water pulsed in and around and held nothing.

he wrote in the dry, frigid air-

whispering winds breathed away the letters.

he wrote in his head-

engraved in the grey matter the story stayed.

the writer's back.

the writer's back;

with a slouch in his shoulders,

and a drag in his step;

a tear in his eye,

and a spark in his head.

the writer's back.