Holes

Old truths fill the

black hole where

I buried the leaking need

for you

I know all about incurable wounds

            So much and for so many weepy and

            lonely afternoons

            I meant to leave you

            for so much, my friend

                        and I did

Knots

“Just before your friend Andy came up here,” Alturis said, peeling an apple with meticulous attention, “he shot and killed someone.  Did he tell you that?”

Meg watched the long, thin blade slice through the apple.  She then answered, “No.”

“Well he did,” Alturis replied.  His tone was no longer light.  “Even more unfortunate, that person happened to be my brother.”

Meg just looked at him.

“Apparently your Andy had never killed someone before," he continued.  "It disturbed him.  So he took a leave of absence and came here.  Which is where we found him.  And you,” Alturis added, as if it were impolite to not mention her place in his diabolical scheme.  “Bad information led me to—what was their name?—the Gergens or the Bourbons or whoever those old people were.  It’s hard to find good help nowadays.”

“I wouldn’t know," Megan returned.  Her eyes welled with tears, as an image of the Bergens bloodied and dead in their living room assaulted her memory yet again.  "I’m not in the market for henchmen.”

Alturis gave a little nod.  “And a good thing for you, too.”

“But that doesn’t explain what you want with me.”

“Doesn’t it?” he asked, smiling again.

Safe

I have a secret words

will never find,

images I tucked

away.

I once heard a voice.

It beckoned me,

singing,

tell me your secrets,

your hopes and fears

and jealousies.

I whispered back in the

safest voice I could

reveal,

my dreams mean nothing

to you.

Closed Off

George wants to know what we’re going to talk about.

Well, I don’t know, I tell him. 

I guess about what’s on the other side of the wall.

Okay, he says, what’s on the other side of the wall?

Grass, I answer.  And trees.  England.  Dogs.  Cats

Birds and cows and children and French fries.

Music, some of it beautiful.  Pictures and art.

Questions about steam and smoke and words that

cannot be pronounced.

All of these things and more.

Hmmmn, he replies, I know about most of

those things. 

I’m not sure what’s in it for me.

You can’t want to be inside of those walls,

I protest.

It must be boring, and so lonely.

Boring, no, he says, because I still have

my mind.

Lonely, sometimes.  But I wasn’t made to

feel much.

I could ask what you were made to do,

I reply.

But I don’t think I want to know.

That’s not a secret, he says.  I was

made to think.

And I do think.  I tell you things,

sometimes, when you’re half-asleep,

or not afraid or interested or

desperate.

I wish you were more interested.

I would tell you more.

I know enough, I answer.

But you don’t, he insists.

You really don’t.  I could tell you

about the oceans and why the

rivers flow and what makes

you not want to wake up.

I could tell you so much.

The boys come, scale the walls.

They whisper things to me,

so that I know why.

Sometimes I escape,

but this is my home.

And the dolls with knives

chase me.  Dolls as

big as you are.

I don’t like them very much.

No, I say, they don’t sound

very nice.

They aren’t, he answers.

they shout things at me from

the other side of the

walls.

“You, boy,” they say,

“you shut up, or we’ll cut

you!”

You wouldn’t think a doll

with blonde hair and

pig tails could be so

vicious.

I’m sorry, George,

I reply.

I didn’t know.  I wish

I could fight them for

you.

They would slash you to

ribbons,

he says.  You, who

can’t shout, who

runs in slow motion,

who can’t dial a

phone, or remember

our mission.

I wish you were interested in

our mission.

I have to stay here until

you set it in

motion.

That isn’t going to

happen, I tell him.

Are you or aren’t you

my friend?

Friend, he repeats,

sounding surprised.  Why

would I be your

friend?  What would the

point be in that?

We have a war to

fight,

and I am your weapon.

The boys are nice

enough, and I could do without

the dolls and their

knives, and sometimes

my thoughts echo.

But there is no love

here.

Look somewhere else

for it.

Volcano

How I would like nothing more than

to feel the cadence of your

pulsating love again

Nothing more than to know it is me who

you tried with your heartbreak

to protect

Instead I am left waiting on the hill

shaking with knowledge of

lost connections

I am left on the pier with memories of 

the dead

their sorrow pointed toward

the horizon

War

I don’t really know what to say.  Well, I do, but I don’t want to write it down.  I want to obliterate it into a million zillion pieces.  I want to turn them into cartoon characters I can erase, or I can crumple up and throw away.  I want to fly in the stars I want to fall splat on the ground.  This could go on forever.  Fat and wore cheap suits.  There, how’s that for something?

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

There is a party conference going on and no one is winning.

After

the place you fell down from

                                                was the air so pure up there

                                that before you could warn me I

might find you

                                    in the rustling of the trees  

you lost your breath

                and I was trapped

                under this avalanche of leaves