Nor Be Forgotten

For lack of a better response

upon opening his final Christmas gift

he mentally calculates 

how much of a mess it'd make

if he were to spontaneously explode 

of irony

in that crowded living room:

Considering that the adult human male

is 60% water

and that his six feet weigh 240 lbs

he estimates the blast radius

and volume of red goo

dousing the walls, ceiling, furniture, floor

and mostly innocent family members.

The projected matter

lucky enough to land in the fireplace

would cook off slowly

its sizzling sound serving

as an eerie counterpart

to the silence of astonished relatives

coated in what'd remain

of a man they somewhat knew

who'd just unwrapped a framed photo

of himself, alone on a fishing boat

after nearly dying nightly

from a year of solitude.

Centering his stance on his sea legs

he thanks his well-meaning bestower

extends the frame's stand

to face his grinning countenance

for half a glass of wine

then walks the gift of a lifetime

to the trunk of his father's car

lest it be forgotten

in the revelry to follow

though knowing himself

he's not one to forget.

Currently reading:

"Raymond Carver:  Collected Stories"

The Holiest Act of the Sabbath

The second best way

to spend a wet

but unseasonably warm

Sunday afternoon

once the pile of dishes

has been washed

in water just shy of scalding

and your plans have been canceled

thus saving you from sin

is to listen to the compilation

of sentimental songs that an old flame

assembled for you

ten, fifteen, twenty 

years ago 

back when there was more

of you worth loving

if only to remind yourself

that you were once deserving

of that sacred gift

from someone you should've cuffed.

The best way, however

to spend the aforementioned 

type of afternoon

would be lazily in bed

with that ghost of a composer--

your children off being spoiled

by glowing grandparents

for a few hours as precious

as each note and line

heard now

like belated reminders

of what could exist

in a parallel universe;

not bitter, but grateful

to have have lived it.

The Meat Sweats, Decoded

It starts the same:

We see a swan killed

by an 18-wheeler

or the people

designated to protect us

prove their humanity

too soon.

We meet the smell

of blood; our own

and that of others.

Our turn comes

to return the favor

that is pain.

Then we're taught of blades

and where to stab them.

Next we learn when.

(Years later; decades

sometimes.)

None will get out

alive

and we'll all receive

spam emails

from the hacked accounts

of dead folks 

like ghost ships

in cyberspace 

eventually

but the blessed 

will come to laugh

when the priest

can't sing to save his life

at the funeral mass

of the departed

and embrace that the daggers

we're born to thrust

don't have to be

as buried

in flesh

as us.

A Silk for Your Filth

You can quote scripture.

We're playing with fire.

You can hope she

never called

another man "Sailor".

A cello

that we can't

choose to ignore

plays loudly.

There's enough

of our bloods

in the wood

of these floors

to claim it as kin.

We wanted that

too.