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Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

Diner The diner was old, even then. Shafts of light through the picture-window blinds over the faded red booths. The red-haired waitress with too much rouge, the other grey-haired with glasses. They both wore white uniforms. Dresses. Women didn't wear pants much, back then. The cook was tattooed and also wore white. He looked as much like a sailor as a cook.

Tall menus were sandwiched between napkin holders and salt & pepper shakers, on the side of the table by the window. There were no booths on the other side, just a counter with stools.

Coca-Cola, iced tea, coffee. Burgers and fries with a real bottle of ketchup on the table. Ham and e

BitterBitter-sharp and angled
The stake through my heart
The brightest sun cannot penetrate
The cold seizures as I die
and die
and die, everyday;
but still somehow remain.

You only had to die once.
I've died a thousand times
since you left.

Dying is no way to live.

A Drunken HymnFuzzy and smokey, creamed and strained
Clap on, clap off, cornered and drained;
Seeing is sawing, kneeing and gnawing
Hammerhead rhythm, red herring brain.

Do you want more sentimental sleaze?
More eyelinered fat kids, diseased?
Perhaps Superman will fly in and drink gin
With you and your uncle's mad niece.

(I like my flatliners flat, my beer strong
My ghosts to stay dead, my wood to last long
Forty acres and a mule is not enough
Give me your head, I won't be too rough.)

Slippery and slimy, or scaly and dry
Cankered and cancerous, bloody well wry;
Being's believing, but knowing is fleeting
Fifty steps down to the what and the w

Grandmother's HouseThe smell of hot concrete rising from the sidewalk
and the tar on the wooden bridge
The sound of trains coming and going
So close that the small house was rattled

It was always summer, there.

Screen doors and a small rotator fan were enough
to keep out the mild heat of June
The train whistles sang me to sleep at night
With their wistful traveling tune

It was always summer, then.

HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

DrownBlackness at three AM
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown

Sunflower Field BurningStalks of sun ablaze turn heads down, shriveling;
Smoke filled sky, blotting out the very thing they would see;
I pound the wall in helpless rage.

RiverBleeding words from shellshocked brain
A mantra: Clocks, crows, plastic flowers,
Dust, dirt.
Dreams, pale winged,
Flicker like an old-time movie.

Mannequins. Barberpoles. August days.
Running freely down
and through
and again.

A sieve.
A stone.
A bleached bone.
A river.

It always ends in the river.

Raindrizzle-dream drops plop against the pane
the sun's so much farther, far away today
whispered memories replace buoyant talk
of starfish and freedom and flying away
no, no dreams of flying today, just quiet
words of long ago and what might've been
promises made in the sun hold no weight
on a day when the grey's pouring in
you remember her, now, from so long ago; dancing on sand so white
(it was bright as a headache)
hand-in-hand laughter, a day without end;
but it did end, when you weren't looking, and suddenly
it was ten years after, and you were sitting alone
watching the rain
inside the drops you hear gulls crying, waves rushing; children calling out
to each other as they play
a radio plays your song, she squints into the sun
(the most beautiful creature you've ever known)
you hear her whispered "i love you" and then it's just
rain once again

Falling AwayIt's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Unable to stay vertical, no horizontal to catch me
Blindly boring white days falling in and out of sleep
Waiting for something to end and something to begin

Talking about white things and birds and death stars
The location of heaven, the door that won't open
The hollow sounds of the memory gears turning
The falling, falling, endlessly through a sea of white

(Did I mention the white nothingness? Of course, yes,
It's all I have left to talk about, the falling through white)
It's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Catch me.

SymphonyIt's the measured breathing of someone on oxygen, here in the small hours. I don't know where it's coming from. I hear it beneath the white noise of the air conditioner.
It's the faint jumpiness of a phone ringing, a monitor flatlining on a loop in my memory.
It's the droning in my own ears, the hum-buzz of the tinnitus, the electricity and insect sounds.
It's the whistle of a train, much louder than it should be. It soars over the top of it all. There are no trains nearby.
It's four AM again. The silence is not golden.

Recession A man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.

He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.

Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over

Cardboard I feel sick. The coffee's too strong, the morning too dark. Cigarettes
taste like cardboard must taste, although I've never eaten cardboard. (I
wonder why I hear "tastes like cardboard" so often. Are people eating it?
Should I try it?) No, I feel too sick. I want to spill my guts. The fluid
in my lungs, the bile in my stomach. Void myself of whatever inside is
making me feel this way. Heartsick. Cee's heart got sick and died. Whatever
gods there might be hated me so much, they kept me alive for their
amusement. Brainsick, soulsick. There'll be no sun today, but it's still as
dark as twilight at eight AM. It could (should) be

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More from =Bark

LoveLove is a big toy firetruck at Christmas.
Soothing whispers after a bad dream.
Cookies and milk after school.
Watching cartoons on Saturday morning.

Love is talking endlessly on the phone.
Knocking nervously on her door for the first time.
Two heads bent over the same book.
The first ride in that first old car.

Love is cooked in a yellow kitchen on a bright day.
Made under piled-on blankets in a chilly dark bedroom.
Sits on the livingroom sofa in front of an old movie.
Is a met gaze unexpected, a gently stroked cheek.

Love walks through the park to feed the birds.
Sits in hospital rooms quietly holding hands.
Has worried eyes th

MetalworksWelded blackiron
Rooftop clatter
Slowwalking through the
Smoke
Austere
High above all humans with their
Clucking tongues
Ringing phones
Bluescreen panics
Canned laughter
An injection of pseudo-freedom
In the haze
A spot of bluesky through
Twisted iron

An ounce of hope.

NestleBirds and fish and
Birds and fish with human faces
Singing fragile lullabies from
The Otherside
Steeped in a peasoup day
Or is it night?
I can't be sure.

.

Little pearly babyteeth
Lipsmile, dead-eyed, dangerous
Minds sharp as razors
They cut.

.

I will not mention
Cracked bones, ashes, or crows
I will not.
Underwater, too deep for the light to reach,
They do not exist.

.

Fade now.
Everything has sunk
To the bottom.
Rest.

FlowBetween the cracks of rough-hewn boards
Slipshod dreams seep slowly through
To gather beneath and flow below
Into that river, that subconscious stew

Singsong swings and playground shadows
That first car, that first girl long gone
The job that didn't work out and the clocks
And the trips down in Mexico

Spinal crackers and carnal bones
The murder of crows ever present
The heart that rotted and dragged her down
The black train that took her away

The minutiae of a long life all run together
Flowing murkily under the floorboards
And rising into a stifling silence
Smoke and listless faces unnamed

Void that check and write another

Taverngraves in the pale sunlit afternoon
fields speckled with flowers
lost loves flying on the soft breeze
shadows grow long

the tavern is dark and filled with the smoke of unrealized dreams
stale beer, stale lives, stale music from a machine
we were young once, with futures
now we pass the time away waiting for death

how could it all have happened so fast?
i remember summer days that lasted forever...
but now i'm here, waiting with the others in silence
no need to speak, we all know.
we could tell again the beautiful tales of yesterday, but what would be the point?
we all know, we've all heard, we all understand.

slatted light squea

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Submitted: April 26, 2011
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Shot On Location

by =Bark, Apr 26, 2011, 3:10:59 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

The flights were all canceled due to grey jello
The grounded were hounded by small barking dogs
O'Hare billowed skyways and vanished in grey
On the rooftops at Wrigley the saints were all safe

Tinsel, utensils and bright Christmas strands
Grey pudding for all at the end of the stand
The dawn came early with chirping grey birds
But the saints were all drunk, disordered and slurred

On a wooden raft down the Rock River we floated
Caressing their bones and singing their songs
Northwind pushing away from the grey day
And into the comfort of Logli's night deli

Shot On Locationby =Bark

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Eaten by small dogs
We were all

A first draft. A comment about Grey Jello by ~Cheshire-Jack instigated this.

`kuschelirmel Sep 18, 2011 Hobbyist Digital Artist

This is to inform you that your image has been featured in my news article Twenty Under Forty. It's an article that features 20 deviations in each issue that have less than 40 faves at the time of putting the article together.

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