I sliced the hair right off my head and let me say,

it was smooth as butter,

every cut.

It dusted the floor like a shaggy, brown snowfall

and I left it all there, hoping maybe

it would melt into the carpet.

With my head ten pounds lighter I floated down the stairs

like a cloud of smoke,

danced around in the yellow evening light.

When he came home,

pushed through the front door with a surge of January air behind him,

he stumbled back at the sight of a stranger in his kitchen.

But he can scream until the sun comes back up,

and new hair begins to sprout.

I don't care.

Yeah I sliced the hair right off my fucking head and let me say,

it was nice to meet her.

let's talk,

tough love

rough hands

teaching me

how to feel.

break it down

build again

let's talk,

fork tongues

licking marrow

from backbone

to keep me still.

break it down

build again

let's talk,

mental cage

words locked down

thoughts chained

to keep it sound.

break me down

build again

Let's talk,

long walks

whispered

before frozen

fingers curled

a death grip

around my

voice box

                  dig it up just to bury it again

I'm tired of talking

The paramedic collects the fragments

Amber and clear

From his shoulder

And that of the road

It was cold, icy

Couldn't see the truck coming

You should have been here by now

An eight hour drive

Michigan to Missouri

It's been twelve

It wasn't the plan

You wanted to confess

Your love, for me, to me

Repair our separation

A mistake

Now you knew

But without warning

Plans dashed

And so I will die too

Never knowing the love of you

Your intentions in shards

Along the shoulder of the highway

Sparkle hopefully in the headlights

As my eyes did for you

My heart, a brittle artifact

I'll collect it's pieces

And

I'll try to put them back together

But some were buried

With you

And the glass in your shoulder

Let me entertain you with my foul indignation

And take my inevitable descent into desperation

Then I can explain

How something so inane

Can create the person I am

I’m ready to come out

Here’s my debut

And I’ll say a million words

That you’ll all misconstrue

I’m going to bore you now

With my abstract scorn

And hold the roses

While I bleed from the thorns

©HeatherAnn

#Poetry #Poem

Doc Mayfield pulled into the parking lot of the Middleton Cemetery and killed the engine. He sat there for a minute gazing across the green lawns, interspersed with headstones and angelic statuary. Climbing out of the truck, he winced as the arthritis in his left knee gave a little holler. He tolerated most of the aches and pains which accompanied aging, but the darn arthritis wasn’t always easy to ignore. He supposed he might have to use some of that Icy-Hot stuff, but Lord, it smelled so bad!

Reaching into the back of the truck, Doc retrieved a small plastic bucket, containing gloves, a whiskbroom, and other small yardwork tools. He also grabbed the small bouquet of lilies he'd picked up on the way here; lilies had always been Aggie’s favorite.

He approached the familiar headstone with reverence, as he had almost every week for the last thirty-five years. Setting the bucket down, he leaned over and removed the stems of what had once been fresh flowers before replacing them with the bundle of lilies. He was careful not to drop the old stems, but instead folded them and placed them in his jacket pocket—he would deposit them in the can by the entrance on his way out.

He grabbed the whiskbroom from the bucket, and lovingly brushed the surface of the headstone, then slowly traced the words with his fingertip.

Agnes Lucille Trindle

15 Jan. 1943 – 18 Jun 1961

Fly With Angels, Beloved

Often, especially when he was younger, seeing her name engraved on this stone had brought him to tears. Her name should have been Agnes Mayfield . . . and it shouldn’t have been here at all. Although he had come to terms with his grief many years ago, he still missed her every day; he always would.

“Aggie my love, I’m sorry I didn’t make it out to visit you last week. Between delivering a foal on Wednesday night, and surgery on a dog on Thursday morning, it was just too hectic. I know you understand sweetheart.”

He pulled the only weed he could see growing at the base of the stone, and using the spade, he edged the entire plot where she was buried. Her grave was the most well kept one in the cemetery, due to his weekly upkeep, and it saddened him to think how so many folks had no one to do this for them.

His mind returned once again, as it did every time he visited her, to that night many years ago, when his future father-in-law had come to the door, tears streaming down his face. The news of the accident had shattered Doc’s world forever. The worst part was, he had no one to blame except maybe God, and somehow his anger never seemed to impress God much. He even found his faith hadn’t been completely destroyed . . . and once the anger had been replaced by acceptance, he had even started attending church again, if only intermittently.

Doc had discovered a sad truth on that long ago day—losing your soul mate permanently divided your life, into a before and an after. Once, he had been a carefree young man looking forward to becoming an animal doctor, with his wife standing by his side; now he was a lonely old man who found solace in treating the animals of his friends and neighbors, and in his surrogate family at the clinic.

“I think I’m going to give young Peter a raise. I’m pretty sure he intends to ask Amanda Donner for her hand in marriage. A young man with matrimony on his mind needs all the financial support he can earn; besides, he really is the hardest working young man I’ve ever hired.

“I gave Grace some roses for her birthday yesterday, and you’d think I’d given her a gold mine. It warmed my old heart to see how much some silly flowers meant to her, and it made me realize yours were getting old, after a missed week. I hope you like these new ones.”

He stood, and as the muffled popping of his left knee disturbed the stillness, he glanced at her gravestone again, then reached down and picked up his bucket of tools.

“As always, my sweet, sweet dear, I’ll see you again, when God calls my number. Until then, I love you.”

With that he turned and slowly walked back towards the parking lot, and the quiet ride home in the truck.

The funeral, like many others, had been a sad affair. Until the apparition appeared, that is. For Umberto Burn had not been a serious man in life, and he could hardly be expected to become more so in death, after having slipped his mortal coil.

The attendance was more than fair at the wake of the great magician, which was of course held in his own house, and his wife and two grown sons felt proud that so many had come to pay tribute to the man that they had so loved. The jeweler was there, his wife’s claw-like hand sparkling with rings. The doctor had come with her fair daughter, whose blush rose up her comely neck when Umberto’s older son smiled and thanked her for coming. And honor of honors, the town mayor appeared, strolling into the small, white-walled sitting room, midnight-blue waistcoat struggling to contain his not inconsiderable stomach.

Umberto’s remarkably lifelike remains were of course the focal point of the room, and his coffin was positioned against the south wall, the chairs arranged to face it. His skin was unlined in spite of his white hair, and his pencil mustache was as perfectly waxed as ever. The red bowtie he had only ever worn while performing persuaded some of the younger children that the magician was about to sit up and tell them all that his sudden and unexplained death had been yet another trick. Of course, however, this did not happen.

But Umberto’s ghost did make an appearance. Two old biddies were sitting in his plush red chairs, frizzy gray heads pushed together, talking about his body over their demitasses of punch.

“Odd to see him so quiet,” the one on his left said. “I don’t think I ever saw his mouth closed.” He stuck his head between theirs and with his famous wide smile, spoke.

“Why thank you,” he grinned, “I would consider myself a weak performer indeed if I did not always keep your attention.” The ladies jumped back, howling. The one who had spoken fell over in a dead faint, her companion moving with surprising alacrity until she was out of the house altogether, still howling.

“Ah, father,” his younger son spoke, “I was wondering if we should see you.” His wife stepped toward him.

“It is good to see you again, Umberto. I hope everything on the other side is to your liking?”

“Indeed, Marguerite, when your time comes we shall be very comfortable here. But I hear it is time for my burial. I have come to see it performed. When one gets the chance to attend one’s funeral, one does not miss it!”

The rest of the party stared at Umberto in various states of surprise. If there was a way to come back from the dead, they were not surprised that the renowned magician had discovered one. The butcher’s young son spoke up timidly.

“Mr. Burn, how did you do it? Come back, I mean?”

“Ah, young Jeremiah, you know I would never reveal my secrets!”

*****

They made their way to the graveyard with aplomb, Umberto’s coffin carried solemnly by his chosen pallbearers and Umberto himself leading a conga line behind it. His wife’s hands kept sinking through his shoulders when she forgot that he was no longer solid, but he hardly minded. Through the cemetery, its white tombstones glowing pink in the vivid sunset, they wound their merry way. They lowered his coffin into the ground and the priest intoned over it, Umberto making faces behind his back with every mention of “resting in peace.” And when his body was safely in the ground, Umberto Burn went home with his family.

The next morning, a pounding on his front door woke Umberto. When his wife opened it, the postman stumbled in, sweat pouring down his red face.

“You –have to –come quick. Cemetery. Not good!”

With his wife, his sons, and the postman, Umberto rushed back to the graveyard, where he stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, he thought there was a mirror leaning against the stone wall of the graveyard. It was then that he realized he was staring at his own body, propped against the wall, mouth lolling open.

“Well,” Umberto said, “the widows were right about my never closing my mouth.”

His sons hoisted his body between them, and they followed after him into the graveyard, his wife beside him and the forgotten postman forming the caboose of their little train. They tracked their way back through the graveyard, dew sparkling in the morning light. When they reached the oak tree beside which his grave stood, they paused. For there stood the coffin, on the grass beside the gigantic hole they had just seen the night before.

With Umberto’s instruction, his sons repositioned his body in the coffin and reclosed the lid. They would see the caretaker on the way out and have the coffin resealed and reburied. No one was very troubled. It was not unexpected that the body of such an excellent magician would still be playing tricks after death.

*****

They were not worried until the process was repeated the next day. And the next. And the next. Every day, his body was found farther from its grave. Until finally, when his body was found two towns away exactly one week after his original burial, Umberto reached a conclusion. When he told his wife, she was unsurprisingly unhappy.

“Of course you can’t go back! Whyever would you go back when you can be here? With me?” As tears ran down her beautiful face, he remembered the first time he had ever seen her. She had been an orphan, seventeen to his twenty-four, when she had come to him and begged to be his assistant. And though he had had no money himself, he had known that he could not say no. Indeed, he could never deny her anything. Until now. He cradled her beloved face in his hands, though she could not feel them.

“My Marguerite. My pearl. I cannot stay here. I should never have come back. Indeed, I told Saint Peter I would be gone only for an hour, and it has been seven days. It was a mistake, my flower. We have had our time –more than our time. And one day, it will be our time again.”

“Then that day shall be tomorrow. I shall end myself the moment you leave!” He stepped away from her, horrified.

“You will do no such thing! For that would make a hell of my heaven! Besides,” he said more gently, “our sons need their mother.” She nodded sorrowfully. She had spoken in haste, and she knew he was right.

“I will be with you, though you will no longer see me. I never really left. You will see one day how you can exist in two worlds at once. I have been straddling a line, which I can no longer do. But,” he winked at her, “I will stick my head over every once in a while.”

*****

After saying his final goodbyes (again), Umberto Burn walked out of his house. He made his way to the graveyard. And this time, he, too, got into his coffin before it was lowered into the ground one final time.

*****

Marguerite Burn was the most joyous widow the town had ever known. She cradled her grandchildren and laughed with her sons. She adored the wife of her elder son, who had once been the blushing girl at his father’s funeral, and the husband of her younger son, whose circus brought as much joy to the town as Umberto himself once had.

When Marguerite died twenty years after her husband, the town was somewhat disappointed that she did not reappear as he had. But on quiet evenings during particularly spectacular sunsets, the Burn grandchildren stared out at the graveyard and marveled. For sometimes, they would swear that they could see two figures dancing in a conga line, waiting for others to join them.

Do you know what it’s like to look at the china afterwards? When the light catches the gilded edge? You scrape off dinner, and underneath are those little painted shells. You look at that flawless, bone-white plate or the dish with the rosebuds. You look at your hand-thrown bowls with the faux cracks buried beneath the glaze. It’s all broken, and you want nothing more than to shatter it. It’s ephemeral, and it’s permanent. The scalloped edges and the machine painted leaves. Every vessel stripped down and unable to do its job. No more containment. It’s haunting. That ephemeral dish sitting so permanent. Just reminding you. Once she was here. Once you ate your meals together. You shared this table. Her feet resting in your lap. You can see her hair fall across her eyes and her smile when you catch them. And you want to destroy every reminder. You want broken glass. The metallic flakes in the glaze scattered across the floor. Nowhere to put the food. Just the debris and the wreckage. Raw glass and glittering, sharp edges. And no more reminder. Just you and the broken pieces and the floor and the empty table and the empty house. And it’s not permanent. It’s ephemeral. And it’s gone.

The warehouse reeked of ginger which it had stored for years,all the way back to British rule. I watched Daphne (her given name) work herself into her third righteous fury in the last hour.

The warehouse was located deep into the Kowloon’s walled city, the default bug out destination programmed into the drone.

She was wearing a coolie jacket and a pair of drawstring pants that I had switched her unconscious form into after removing her soiled garments shortly after arrival (outrage 1).

To decouple her from the cut spinal jack I had to shave a two inch border to access the port on the back of her head (outrage 2).

I explained that we were locked down for the immediate future until both HKs finest and Ideogram Corporate security calmed the fuck down (outrage 3).

Standing up she announced that she was “Otta here!”

I carefully laid the cutdown Bullpup combat enforcer on the chipped formica tabletop in front of me. The four, fat custom loads glimmered wetly in the stark fluorescent lighting.

“Sunshine.” I said. “The data in your head is in high demand by not just me but a certain well established criminal organization. Now, If they don’t receive it post haste they will joyfully kill both you and me. If you attempt to leave I will kill you by shooting you center of mass. Which following,I’ll remove you head , below the coupler, pack it in ice and deliver it to aforementioned criminal organization. Thus removing the middle man with same desired result. Capish?”

Manageble...

#cyberpunk

A Day in the Life of Guy

Guy Fieri wakes to an alarm clock blaring.

The midday sun streams in through the tattered blinds.

Dust dances in the stale air.

He pulls on an old flame covered shirt.

Is that blood?

It's marinara.

Thank Christ.

Guy stumbles to the bathroom, and grimaces at himself in the mirror.

His leathery visage stares back at him. Dried, bloody parmesan cheese is coming out of a nostril.

Fuck, what happened last night?

Guy walks, eyes half open, to the refrigerator. A lone chunk of cheese is the only thing in it.

He sighs as he takes it and puts the hunk of cheese onto a spoon.

He begins the ritual of tying the belt around his arm and watches the flame dance under the dirty spoon.

He draws up a syringe and mechanically slides the needle into his vein.

He catches a reflection of himself in the toaster. His hair wild and goatee unkempt.

"Welcome to flavor country" he mutters before depressing the plunger.

He slumps to the floor as the cheese rushes into his system.

He is, for a few moments, in blissful cheesy ecstasy.

It's time for Guy Fieri to begin his day.

“Why am I not green?”

The mother sits alone with the child, in the home they made of a hollowed-out stump ages ago. A candle burns low as a makeshift fireplace. The dull flame flickers over the duller glass picture frames, over the knitting needles in her hand, bent and twisted with age. She rocks slowly back and forth in her chair, while the child sits at her feet. He looks like her husband.

“Why am I not green?” he repeats.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re green, and dad’s green, and my friends, and everyone else I’ve ever met before. So why aren’t I?”

The mother pauses in her rocking. Shadows dance across her face, across the half-finished blanket in her lap. The silence is only broken by the pop of a small bubble of candle wax.

“Because you are special.”

“I don’t want to be special. I want to be green, like everyone else.”

“Go to bed. Maybe you’ll be green when you wake up.”

The mother and father lie in bed that evening, on top of the covers, letting the cool air seeping through the cracks and crannies of the hollow stump wash over them. Outside, crickets chirp, calling out to the full moon above.

“Your son asked why he isn’t green today,” the mother says softly. “I couldn’t think of a good explanation.”

The father just grunts, eyes half closed, staring up at a tiny spider that has started weaving a web on the ceiling.

The mother watches him watching the spider. She soon stands, hobbling out to the kitchen for a glass of water. She brings the glass to her mouth, but doesn’t really drink it, just letting the water slosh in a sort of purgatory between the glass and the back of her throat. The crickets pause in their song, possibly silenced by a passing owl. Her eyes become glazed over with the fog of thought.

When she returns to the bed, the father seems asleep. But then he hums and rolls over to face her as the bed dips slightly under her weight.

“So, why isn’t he green?” he mumbles.

“I’m not sure. I never thought about it too much.”

“Why not?”

“It never seemed important.”

The two lie there, facing each other. In the dark of their bedroom, neither of them can see the green hue of their own lumpy skin. Just shadows in the dim, dark shapes engulfed in more darkness, like two seeds in the bottom of a clay jar.