She so deeply loves

The deeply damaged

You know the ones

Others don't bother to manage

Stray cats and clearance plants

Things that need a second chance

Despite the neglect, rejection, and hell

She believes her love can make them well

This moment of silence is just for me.

Cut out of a time when sleep's avoided,

I sit alone.

A bird chirps a song of morning dew,

and sometimes others join in—

A chorus ensues.

The sun has hours to arrive.

Once in a while, the hiss of a car zips through.

Moisture on tires ripping across asphalt

then back to silence.

There’s something in the silence that can’t be engineered.

Because it’s more a feeling than a sound.

There are always sounds, but not always peace.

and peace is everything in a world where there is none.

So, I sit alone and steal this moment for myself,

while you lay and dream of better years,

better days,

or better moments to come.

I wait patiently inviting the sun to peek its curious eyes over that mountain

so when you wake, I can greet you with a peaceful start to your day.

Your smile is worth the deprivation I endured.

In this ink,

through these words,

A tenuous hope

is entwined.

Our words reach out

to find refuge

from our loneliness.

To find a way to stop sabotaging

ourselves

And start saving

ourselves instead.

Shock Life back into us,

Connect us,

Remind us,

that we are electric.

A clock works because the things inside

Function as they should.

The mechanics are not seen

But their outcome is seen and appreciated.

People are like clockwork.

They go unseen, unnoticed,

Yet they make the world what it is.

Sometimes they make it better.

Sometimes they make it worse.

But they have the power to change the world.

We have the power to change the world.

We have the power to change.

We have the power.

And into the massive abyss

I fell.

A world within a mind,

a universe untouched.

Reality is all my own –

this is now a dream awakened.

Those men come marching –

their faces of ticking clocks,

though backwards with time,

spinning wildly.

They open their mouths to me.

And, like fireworks,

out erupts a flock of songbirds,

carrying with them a tune that ignites the magic from within my soul.

A serenade for me.

Then –

the great eagle descends.

Watch how the oaks bear their arms

for his perch.

And I revel in this mastery,

this mystery.

The giant bird sits –

he watches my pondering,

and stares at my thoughts.

The limbs of those trees

extend far beyond their own capabilities now

as they strip me bare

to this fantastic, colorful land.

A liveliness in nature.

A parade of faceless images appear –

and under the ashen smoke, the navigate their dance so precisely.

So uniquely. The intrigue stroking at my sanity.

The luminescent soldiers come forward now,

touching me.

But what a wondrous surprise in their cuff to my flesh!

Making me quiver

in only what I could imagine a great holiness to be.

A metallic, 4-dimensional rainbow bursts alive –

oh, how it streaks about so confidently

along the innocent blue skies.

Its glowing spirit of essence

illuminating the mossy earth below my feet.

I feel it awaken -

a childhood memory to everything the universe has eyed upon,

all it had ever felt,

and it covers me.

A warm, safe blanket.

Security. Peace.

I am not afraid,

sheathed in a gloss of an ever-living dream.

And, oh, how so tenderly it cradles me in its arms –

I can taste upon the breast,

and of the life inside,

as those distant, soothing melodies venture towards my ears.

I can feel the swell

of a new evolution begin.

A renewal.

A birth.

The wings of the eagle spread –

and how exquisitely they are seen,

displayed bravely,

as they shine of a peacock’s dandy nature.

I see.

Falling down upon me,

twirled sensually in an emotional vision,

is a dimly lit brightness lost in the freedom of a feather’s flutter.

Painted.

Artistically captured

though its intensity to never be shown face.

It surely is a vision to behold!

I stand,

and with newfound eyes I see,

the beauty in me.

As the festive dance of a perfect season’s day expands,

and ever so cheerfully,

a bewilderment that lays in the anarchy of happiness reincarnates –

and how that old and mutated cocoon shed itself

from the pricks of my skin!

For I now have wings!

The eagle calls to me –

I follow.

This place is now my own;

a belonging.

“Jameson.” I called out into the empty room.

“Say it.” A fragmented voice responded flatly.

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to make the walls bleed.”

“I don’t want you to make the walls bleed. The clean-up is a nightmare.”

“Then I won’t entertain the ghost hunters.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Dramatic? I’m sorry, did you get your skull cracked by a jealous John?”

“That was a hundred years ago. Wait. A hundred and seven. As of tomorrow.”

“Say it. Or I tell the governor’s mistress to keep her head on. “

“Fine. OH, GREAT LORD BRYANT OF THE TOWERS EAST. I SUMMON THEE. KNOCK THREE TIMES IF YOU ACCEPT MY HUMBLE REQUEST. Happy?”

“More enthusiasm next time. But it’ll do.” Three rapid fire knocks came from the top of my desk. A translucent figure rose from within the oak, its shimmery face staring at me with a smug look.

“Thank you. The tour starts in a few minutes. Is everyone ready?”

“The manic milkmaid is in the kitchen. The gunshot twins swapped spots with the butchered butler.”

“Is that gonna work?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Loosely.”

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll cross over to the other side. You’re lucky your uncle isn’t here. I’m surprised he didn’t stick around.”

I glanced at the tear-away calendar on the wall. Tomorrow would mark the one month anniversary of my uncle's passing. “I’m not. Uncle Jess wasn’t exactly the lingering type. And apparently not one to divulge certain kinds of information.”

“I found your uncle to be quite thorough.”

“Yeah, well. Would have been nice to know that I was inheriting a staff of specters.”

“'Staff of specters'? That’s good, Tom. You should put that in the advertisements.”

A rush of cold air swept through the managerial office of the Sparkling Drop Hotel. The glittering figure of a buxom young woman materialized in front of me.

“Master Tom! Master Jameson! We have a terribly worrisome situation in the basement!”

“What’s going on, Dahlia?”

“Some girls slipped away from the tour group. They’re toying with some sort of strange board-”

I felt Jameson’s cold eyes settle on me.

“-then one of the girls fell to the ground and began shaking violently-

I met the ethereal gaze of my specter-in-command. He grimaced– as well as a ghost can grimace, anyway.

“-speaking in some tongue I’ve never heard!”

"I see. Thank you, Dahlia."

“Everything is so dark and menacing!”

“They must have really summoned something terrible.”

“I was speaking of their attire, sir.”

“...right. I’ll call down and stop the tour. Say there’s a gas leak or something. Dahlia, warn the others.”

The comely spirit gave me a shimmery nod and slipped her translucent body back through the wall.

Jameson's lofty voice wafted through the thickening air. “Very good, Tom. I’ll gather the haunts.”

“Hey, Jameson. One thing. Before we go down.”

“Yes, Tom?”

“Why does the milkmaid talk like that and you speak…normally?”

“Well, Tom. I’ve always been one to keep up with the trends. Now. Are you ready to descend?”

I opened the door to the lobby, diaphragm prepped to bellow falsehoods aimed to spare the living.

I am

A no-go

Slow-mo

Nightmare

To those

Who never

Learned to smile

I don't have the energy

To keep my finger

On the pulse

Of the rage

Of the world

I used to love

So dearly

David Burdett

6/11/2023

“Mommy… Fred’s not swimming anymore.”

Shit. I bet that fish finally kicked the bucket.

I follow my 4-year-old son into his bedroom and confirm my suspicion: That fish was indeed dead.

I looked at my son and thought this was a good opportunity to teach him about life and death and love and loss. I did my best to relate to him that it was okay to feel sad, but to remember that his beloved pet had a very good life. I told him that saying goodbye to a pet was just something we all have to do eventually and it feels really bad.

His blue eyes looked up at me with curiosity. As I spoke, I could see his little features pondering something deeply. He was fidgeting, trying his best to remain patient and to not interrupt. ‘Practicing manners’, as we often worked on together lately.

“Do you have a question, honey?” I asked him gently, allowing him the opportunity to speak whatever was on his young heart.

In a very matter-of-fact manner, he asked, “Can I flush him?”

I hate Father's Day. There I said it. It sneaks up on me every year like a three hundred pound convict sneaks up on the little guy in the prison showers. This dreaded, greeting card, small gift, and "Are you still gonna make dinner, dad" day looms on the horizon now like some paternal angel of death and I wish I could put lamb's blood on the outside doorframe to make it pass by.

Though I biologically own the title of, "Father" it just feels awkward and unearned. I mean, wasn't there supposed to be some kind of training camp? If so, no one told me to write my name in my underwear and get on the bus. Now, if I was supposed to learn from the male authority figures in my life, my kids should sign up for therapy, electroshock treatment, and a Thorazine lobotomy right now. If the male influences in my life were to write a textbook on fatherhood it would be called, "Ducking Child Support, Domestic Violence, Poverty, and I Shoulda Wore a Condom: The Complete Guide to Shallowgenepool's Rearing From A Paternal Perspective." The title's a bit wordy, but it fits.

I guess it's my total lack of positive paternal influence that makes me feel more awkward than a nun at a sex toy trade show when it comes to anything focusing on me being a father. I remember cutting the umbilical cord on my first born and thinking, "Cut the cord? That's what my mom called getting the electricity turned off because her fuck-stick husband spent the bill money on a meth binge." It wasn't exactly the thought that should have crossed my mind in that situation, but it was a reflex borne of my life's philosophy, "Expect to get fucked. Hope there's lube." That was the only kind of cord I was ever willing to cut and I made sure that it was.

It's weird how my childhood memories have attached themselves like time-resistant lamprey's to my adult life. When my kids complain about not being able to go to the movies I am taken back to when I would have killed to get some movie theater popcorn. Fuck the movie. I was hungry, a lot and buttery popcorn would have been caloric bliss. My wife has explained to my kids how I had a rough childhood, but I don't think they really get it. This I understand, because kids of all ages assume that the autobiographical stories parents tell them about their own childhoods are purely the stuff of hyperbolic fairy tales minus the dragons and trolls (unfortunately the evil step-parent sometimes throws in an ugly plot twist). Besides, the wreckage of my past is just that, it's mine. No one else should have to partake in the feast of misery that I was served as a kid. I didn't want to serve my family fucking leftovers from my own personal doggie bag of bad memories.

So, why am I writing this whine fest to my Prose family? It's simple. I don't think that I am the only father out there who dislikes Father's Day for parallel reasons. I write this to say, "You're not alone and as awkward as it is, you'll smile at the gifts your kids give, maybe have breakfast at IHOP, and hope for some Father's Day Fornication when the kids go to bed." It's okay to feel out of place on Father's Day. It's your day, after all. The important thing is to make sure that you aren't an awkward and insignificant presence in the lives of your kiddos the other 364 days of the year.

That killing

Is killing

That ultimately

It does not matter

Whether you’re putting

Down a dying dog

Or pushing a cripple

Off of the long end

Of a short pier

Wouldn’t you agree?

That it is never

Comfortable

To be reminded

Of the ways

We wage war

And the killing

That all of us

Are capable of

When we become

That lunatic

Sunday driver

Asleep at the wheel

Of Life

David Burdett

12/18/2021