Big Talk, Little Town II.

The Aftermath of New York: Always Before the Storm

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Upon my return,

Backs to me, I go unnoticed.

I am invisible again,

Knuckles pressed to the glass window pane

Before it shatters like my heart did.

It was all I ever had.

In the city,

There’s no talk of the bright meadows or the thick woods.

No talk of hiding in the barn on warm summer nights

Giggling when the girls screamed, “BATS!”

Overgrown pine trees,

Sap on my hands

It was all I ever had.

When did I start to slip?

I guess it got cold that winter.

I should have wiped my eyes in the fall

When the goldenrod made me sneeze.

Running to the fields beyond me,

I was a failed representation of my mental state.

It was all I ever had.

When the sky cleared for spring

Was when I lit the match.

I didn’t want to be invisible, so I bit the hands that fed me.

People closed their ears

And even turned their heads.

I wanted autumn to come again

It was all I ever had.

Upon my my return,

Backs to me, I go unnoticed.

He’ll keep his eyes on the 50 yard line

And only turn his head if I bother to show my face.

Fingerprints on my wrists when I had to leave,

I guess I never was invisible.

His kind words were all I ever had.

So when I return, I flash my smile

In respect to the bridges I burned.

Pick me my goldenrod, 66,

But leave room for me in the headlines.

– 8/28/17

Big Talk, Little Town I.

The Aftermath of New York: Always Before the Storm

By the time I was five,

my nose had become akin to the smell of damp dirt and diesel fuel

and my eyes to mud tracked hallways and a sea of blonde heads and dull, grey eyes

By the time I was seven,

they realized mine were hazel-brown,

and that my daddy came from the city rather than a small town

so his shoes were always clean

By the time I was twelve,

the rat-faced boys learned hit heads on the field

but I was the one running the yards to escape

like white-tailed deer

praying not to end up a summertime meal to somebody with a camouflage smile

By the time I was fourteen,

I ran out of breath

and put my hands around the throats of the hicks who called my old Cadillac too clean

before realizing if I choked them it made me just as blind

By the time I was sixteen,

I was long gone

and knew there was more to people than just the dirt on the

soles of their shoes

so whenever I return to the town

where they spit on my black boots,

I let them.

4/18/17

The Life of the Man Next Door

The Aftermath of New York: Always Before the Storm

What reason have I to be repulsed by my own species?

My own kin, as if my mind is abstract enough to separate it from theirs.

None. Not one that is fair

Because I am as much of a product as they are

Forced to stare at my loved ones

Blue faced in an extravagant prayer laced box

Worth more flimsy green paper than I could accumulate in two years time

And am told to call it closure

As if it wasn’t a complete and utter disgrace to the deadman

Whose soul twitches with embarrassment

Under sorrowful empty eyes.

I’d much rather be a wort covered toad,

Or a writhing worm stuck to the pavement.

A beetle under a shoe,

Or an unwatered blade of grass.

Yes, maybe then, I could leave this foul world in peace when it is my time leave it.

No one would look twice.

No one would have to lower my lifeless carcass into a box

That was half heartedly decorated by the hands of a laboring child

Who never saw my face,

But had to take something home to mother so they could afford supper that evening.

No one would bother to stare.

Maybe then I wouldn’t be cradled like a fool

Or kissed with formaldehyde

As if humans actually cared.

5/24/17

revised: 8/27/17

Daydreamers 

The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem

 We are the daydreamers.

A story kept in the pages of freshly printed books with glossy paper.

Protected from the brutal winds of the world while we are young

Given fairytales to drink like sweet tea

But told only to sip, not to swallow.


We are the daydreamers

Kicked out of our cloud castles when our fairy godmothers made holes in the pillowy, white safety nets we thought were our floors,

Scolded us,

Engraved, “G R O W  U P !” into the soft flesh of our delicate hearts,

And watched as we fell,

Landing face first onto a cement reality.
We are the daydreamers

Who still have hope for this miserable world.

The ones who think the sun smiles as it rises.

The ones who think skin is like silk 

And that true love exists outside of the fairytales we were raised upon.

The ones who get by on merely slivers of faith,

Like maybe Peter Pan really does wait patiently on the other side of some golden gate.
We are the daydreamers

But we have grown to accept our fates

Just as we have accepted the bitter taste

Of coffee at 5am.