Death arrived first and waited for the rest of us.
She slept in bed beneath a pall of down and cotton,
drifting away from consciousness
while we toiled within it.
We watched her,
our hushed voices rising up into the air,
“What do we do?”
The questions rose while spirits sank.
Her body left a cavity where she tucked herself in,
buried under the insidious warmth of the duvet.
Pounds lost were nothing to the gravity upon her.
Her breath ebbed back into her lungs,
following the contoured mattress—
a cushion sloped like the bends of the universe—
compelled by forces pulling it in,
pulling her in,
January stuffed me into
This tar pit pipe
If you could just take your knife from my lungs,
That heavy sob still resounding,
Although skepticism regarding the authorship of Shakespeare’s poetry and plays may well have been expressed as soon as William Shakspere (as the family name is spelled in the Holy Trinity Church Register of Stratford-on-Avon) was publicly acknowledged as the illustrious “Bard of Avon,” the first writer to voice his suspicion was James Wilmot, a retired London cleric who in the early 1780′s settled in Warwickshire and proceeded to gather material for a proposed biography of Shakespeare. When he learned that the most famous inhabitant of those parts may well have been the unschooled son of a local tradesman who left not a shred of evidence that he had ever owned a book or written so much as a letter, Wilmot gave up the project and discarded his notes.
Party Politicians love the hurt
Don’t feel anything, they will never learn
Money they push down, they push down
I’m the one “to represent you all”
Polls going up, representatives ring’ doorbells
But there is no love, there is no love
Throw the truth back ‘til we believe you
We hold these bayous close to hearts,
Between chicken wire these screams echo,
Held trapped blue jays,
Swan of evil,
Stripping away a soul guarded,
Leaving behind tears and shattered promises,
Hollowing out unholy, vows forsaken,
Inhaling until fire singes flesh,
Allowing demons to escape with every exhaled breath,
I used to love eating cold cereal. I used to love Cocoa Krispies, Count Chocula, Trix, and especially Lucky Charms. Fiber was never a thought when I drowned my bowl in cereal and milk and dug in, enjoying the sugar rush. It was all so magically delicious until the ride in to school.
Homeroom. I was either late, running to the bathroom or stuck behind a desk, clutching the small, wooden structure. Sometimes, after the bell rung, I would escape back into the bathroom, trying to relieve those harsh, stomach pains.
Dear, Patch. Hello, Peter. Mork, Jack, Good Will Hunting. No more Good Mornings! We have reached What Dreams May Come, an echo now in the Dead Poets Society, but we are The Fisher King. We don’t need no Toys to set The Bird Cage free. Live, Love, and Laugh as we fade to black, remembering The Final Cut.
“You’re dating a slut,” I giggled against warm lips, swaying disconnected in the dance. Mind in another world I sat back, hands shaking. Voice interrupted by breath. Savoring this touch. I scold myself for being such a nymph, sitting in the rain, leaf decorated and gasping with the throbbing veins. Rushed and silenced thoughts, clutching tight and never stopping, singing to you, mirroring your hand’s euphoria. Together like this. Maybe this glory is imagined, but I do not pause to dwell, do not let it rise up. Instead, I swell with you and perhaps you are helium I keep inhaling and my feet might not be reminded of gravity of the sensation of tickling grass again. Instead this could be my only emotion. Sweet, full exodus and jovial ritual before twilight on wet mountain tops beneath trees, dew-covered like our bodies. Heaven held in each other’s gaze.
We create our own gods. Licked nectar off lips, heads thrown back, coupling, reaching, pushing in time.
A soft breeze rustled across deep green grass, perfectly cut to match its square interior. Sun settled down over small, white houses with glass screen doors propped wide open. Shadows fell over newspapers now lifted up, last relics of a world gone quiet, but the road whispered of life to come. But none never did. “Good-morning, neighbor.” “Good-morning, neighbor,” he replied as he walked to his house. “Just another day of paradise,” and the door slammed shut behind him. Sunlight streamed into the small kitchen. His wife, Lily was busy cooking breakfast. She always made scrambled eggs and bacon, his favorite, and she hummed as she cooked.
Pain and sorrow are the sweet rains flowing across the film of our lives. We dive deep through trust and into the heart of betrayal, twisting and turning along the strings of lies and illusion. Passion carries us across, and we hold to heart, afraid to break. But it’s the pieces of tragedy that tell the real stories, stories that we cannot turn away from; can we watch them again and again? Or as the screen fades to black, do we remain held within memory, forever touched by the film of their lives? It’s a simple turn of the page that can be ignored. We don’t want to hear about it. We don’t want to see it. We don’t want to know, but it still happened. One story always echoes across the news. A life was lost. Tragedy struck.