The tram passes by the palms;

The sea behind I could touch

If I reached between the blocks

Blotting out the red sunrise.

If I only stretched my hand

Past the beige-coloured sand

And drowned out the noise

Of the drills and grinders

With their rough reminder

That enough is not enough;

Maybe I could hold back

The crazy relentless race

To fill each and every plot

Until we edit out and lose

All sight of sky or beach

And never more may reach

And never dream to touch.

Everyone here has a story,

and we discuss it all like old maids

at brunch. I haven’t actually felt the sun

on my skin in fourteen days now. I trace water droplets on foggy window panes as they race towards the bottom to be the first

to die.

My roommates from old money— Boca raised, and coming off another booze-hazed bender. This is her fourth time here

—and still, she uses our bathroom to vomit

dinner—no mind who cares. I watch

thick clouds turn into old silent films,

a tapestry of sky under a backlight

of moonlight. I miss the bloom

of my mother’s favorite—

Japanese Magnolia—alone,

outside the window of my childhood bedroom. It’s violet-blush—violent, against the rest of the winter-dead landscape. I’m five hundred miles away— getting drunk on old cartoons—liquid tv afternoons,

and I think:

I’m getting down with this disease—now.

I eat my Cheerios pre-portioned, from a Styrofoam bowl—raspy to alert

everyone when I take a bite

—with full-fat milk.

I try not to think about the physical action, spoon-to-mouth-thirty-two-times, before I’m allowed to stop—

I think about that fat-bellied iguana

I saw out the bay windows yesterday—when everyone else had visitors—

and I sat alone,

with focused gaze—

a full admirer of his strut across the plush

St. Augustine. He wasn’t even aware

he owned a body.

The nurse wakes the almost dead

first—every morning at five

with a courtesy-hard knock,

and demand: Vitals in five!

I join the rest of the herd who linger —strange ghosts in wait.

We line up, unnamed cattle—ready.

To be weighed and prodded

and pushed down the conveyor belt

of health,

—with buckets of chalk-tar Ensure to cushion the landing.

Fattened like pigs ready for slaughter

—I’m allowed outside, but tears are rolling down the window panes again, and the suns still missing.

My white hospital gown billows—

off-the-rack

and totally—

Sane.

I’m gone.

I.

Every Sunday when the sun started to bud

its head through the canopy of dead—speckled dogwoods, coffee-tongued

and morning medicated, she’d peel

back the dust covered fallboard

on her time-stained Bechstein,

like she was lifting the lid

off Pandora’s jar.

II.

Her fleshy skeletal instruments—

just bound bone in flickered white eggshell bounded off, across the rosewood soundboard. The glass-latticed sunroom where I watched, and she rarely ever spoke—quivered with a gusto as she warmed up

her nimble fingers. In her criticisms—

she was Monsieur Croche.

She would grab my hands and place them on the bare-polished mahogany and say: Close your eyes.

Feel the music, first.

Then you can play.

Behind paneled gold-floral,

with eyes shut wide.

She became Claude Debussy

in his third movement of Suite Bergamasque. Each note shivered my skull—as tiny-felt covered hammers

inside the belly,

struck steel strings.

III.

A player piano sits in its place now—

alone.

The capriccios and concertos

that once throbbed

throughout this house

are all lost with their host,

to the hollow harmonics

of frozen clocks,

still tolling.

Embroiled

inside my dream,

I fade into fog

hovering over

our earth,

but you don’t

yank me back.

I shield

your heart

leaking from

my hands

but it’s too late

for you

to say maybe

because

I’ve already

said

goodbye.

I am imagination

blazing flashes of imaged light

soul caught on fire

silence in hush of day

discreet gentle feet

I am imagination

framing your love

reaching for our yesterdays

closed eyes seeking hope

past unfolding into butterflies

I am imagination

upside down reality

daisies of your smile

flight through winged sky

garments of pink sand

I am imagination

surreal dreams with no limits

shadows of infinity clinging

drops of clear water on tongue

holding hands of summer hues

I am imagination

wild with infatuation

throbbing with need

tasting the sweetness

guided by pale moon

But are you just my imagination?

The sea spoke to me

in quiescent tones -

a cerulean reverie

of mirrored water.

Musing my reflection

I capture glimpses

in a wink of time

floating cobalt waves

battling between

internal cosmos

and outer reality.

Soothing seas

rattled by truth

of alter ego

secreted within.

So we might sit this one out

Not because of fright

Or an outbreak of humbleness

Or because the weakness

Of common sense has

Sapped the ferocity of

The armchair generals

But because we don’t have the numbers.

Politics is ephemeral

So its not about what is fair

It’s about what is possible

And those in the know

Know that right now we have

No stomach for war

Except war with ourselves.

It didn’t start with Kosovo

But that righteous interlude

Reawakened the sense

That we were masters of events

And we knew what was best

Not just for ourselves

But also for others.

The others were multitude

And we were like lemmings

Called by unseen forces

To lend our arms and voices

To what was correct; to unite

In spreading the light.

But that light was very bright

And when we look back

At the flash bang moments

It seems we often acted in error

And on reflection

Long shadows from Irak

Leave burned on our retinas

The after images of terror.

So, even though evil in Syria

Should be worried about

And we are not dealing

With dodgy dossiers

But rather the facts

And the pathetic scenes

Of children being hosed down

In Douma after another

Heartless chemical attack

Launched by Russia and Assad

Rightly makes our blood boil

We need to learn the lesson

Of not going to worse from bad;

That’s history’s curse.

So when the old war horse snorts

And the ears prick up

And we wake from our slumbers

To the gunfire’s shout

Calling us to the front

I’m glad we don’t have the numbers

And we might sit this one out.

“Have thy tools ready and God will find thee work,” Pa yelled, as he removed his belt from his britches and walloped my hin’ end. “I’ve told you time and time ag’in that you that you has to git the tools clean after you uses ‘em.” Pa was a big ol’ giant of a feller and I cringed as he backhanded my mouth, causing a little trickle of blood to run down my chin.

“But Pa,” I said, “I was goin’ to clean ‘em but you was in town fer a spell so I stops choppin’ the wood, thinkin’ I gonna clean the axe after I goes to the ol’ swimmin’ hole with Bubba. It was so dang hot! I thought I’d scrub it afore you got back!”

“There aint’ no excuse for sloth,” snarled my Pa. “If you want to be ‘round here a little longer, you has best learn to min’ your manners and take care of yo work if you be wantin’ some vittles."

Well, I shore was hongry so I decides to do what he tells me until I be grown. I’se already eight so thas only ‘bout six more years. In this here country, tha’s considered ol’, fer sure.

I bides my time, doin’ mos’ all of the work, cleanin’ the tools and tryin’ to make ol’ Pa happy or at leas’ not stompin’ mad all the time.

But I’se angry inside, I kin feel it boilin’ aways. One day I decides I can’t take it no mo’ so I do what I has to do! But I clean the tools after, until they shines, not a speck of blood, jes like ol’ Pa always sez to do. I had my tools ready and God did find me work so hallelujah and Praise the Lord.

You slipped from my hands

like grains of sand

I’m left desolate

with just a hint of you.

A few granules remain

proof you loved me once

just enough grains of reflection

sifted onto my splayed palms.

(@stripedAbyss)

Mommy?

I don't understand why you don't listen to me.

I don't understand why you don't hear me.

Why don't you?

Mommy?

What are you doing that is so much more important than me?

Is it your job that consumes you?

Is it your job to sit on the couch all day, on your phone, staring from screen to screen?

Mommy?

I don't understand...

Isn't it your job to take care of me?

Mommy?

I don't understand why you ignore me.

I colored a picture for you, but that was months ago, and it now seems to have dulled in the dusty light coming through the dirty kitchen windows.

Mommy.

I don't understand why I have to do the dishes.

I don't understand why I have to do all the cleaning.

I can't even reach the fucking sink.

Mommy?

I don't understand where you went?

Somewhere far off where all you can see is what you want, which is not me.

That much I understand.

Mommy? Oh Mom.

I don't understand why Dad left.

Was it me?

I don't understand why my little brother James isn't coming back from the hospital.

Mommy.....

I don't understand....I'm still here....I'm still alive.

I don't...

I don't understand why you don't love me...

Why don't you love me?

Why can't you understand me?

MOMMY?! I AM STILL HERE. UNDERSTAND THAT. I NEED YOU. WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT EVEN THOUGH THEY'RE GONE I REMAIN AND I'M STILL A CHILD THAT YOU NEED TO LOVE. A-a child you need to care for. A child you need to take places and hug, and punish and reward and-and.....and.....

A child you can understand.

Why can't you see that everyday I'm aging past my own body and soon I will be too old, my bones becoming dust, blowing in the wind, mimicking your love for me. Gone.

Mommy?

I miss you.

I love you.

I don't understand why you can't come back....

I don't understand why you can't miss me.

I don't understand why you can't love me...

Why don't you?

Mommy?