Death in a FamilyRecently my husband died. I went grocery shopping last Friday and I went through the motions, picking up his aftershave, his green bananas, his favorite juice, guava nectar, the chicken breast, the cherry nut ice cream, all the while trying to remember what he had asked me to get before I left the house. At the register, I loaded the things onto the conveyor belt. Waited for the total, gave the exact change to the cashier, because I had done this before. Every other Friday for sixty years. Walking home, the wind struck me, blowing right through me, like a hand caressing. I packed the groceries away, standing on the toilet seat to reach the cabinet to slip his aftershave through the crack. Wiping my hands on my dress, I put the kettle on the stove for evening tea. Setting the empty cup down on my night stand, I heard him whisper to me. I smile, and reply, "Goodnight, Stan." Recently my husband died...
He still speaks to me.
The End of EverythingWe gazed into the end of the universe
Finding no water, no fire, no hero, just air
It's simply he and I, staring into a hole
A black pit that isn't black at all, just full
We put broken hearts in there, dreams,
A lost people extinct because of inhibition
Ourselves? Perhaps. Why not?
We are important, simple he and I,
Our loud thumping bass hearts
The only sound for a thousand years.
Pity us? You would. But why?
Endings foretold a hundred times
Never true. Never happened. Until now.
Believers transformed into survivors.
Survivors who never thought they would
Hopefuls who were lucky, us two, only
Dreamers who lay in the soot and ash
The soot and ash: the unbelievers.
Telling a story with their bodies, lifeless
Sagging with the weight of ignorance.
At the end of everything, there is nothing.
MurderWe try to murder these feelings.
Desire, self -doubt, hurt, even joy.
The silver hammer of conscience,
Comes down radiating a light
That cleanses the plate of the planet
What are we?
Generation XYZ in search of a eureka
An idea, one that will break the cycle
Of malcontent or boredom,
Of self-hatred, or apathy.
We will write the same things
We are unoriginal, the plays will restart
And the ballads resung,
And there will be no untainted glory,
It will be hitched on, on, and on.
The long line of continuous bullshit
Permanently scarred into our minds and our skin
Out and up and between all that we know
To finish here, in the breath of pain
Desire, self doubt, hurt, even joy.
In our dreams, we wander far and fast,
Going nowhere, feeling nothing.
AppleI am ripe,
Quietly waiting for her to pick me up.
She started a new diet yesterday
Or she said she did.
For which she bought me,
Just what the doctor ordered.
One of me and she will be free.
She goes to work,
And I lay here, still waiting.
My color fading.
I got a spot today;
Tiny and brown
You wouldn't even notice it,
But I do. It hurts.
She passed me by again,
Picking up a Pop-tart.
Synthetic me, wrapped in frosting
My spot spread
I'm dying now.
She picked me up today
To throw me out.