The Sons Of

Our stories revolve around the sons of…

Of harpy and of Jacob

From which fathers are they?

Is their devotion to violence in the alley

Merely a skewed reading of scripture

 

They call themselves the sons of…

Of ones whose hearts are all-consuming fire

And disgust in the bedrooms.

Their loyalty unfaltering, unmoved, and solid

Their causes horrifically misplaced

 

These are the sons of…

Broken men following broken men following broken men

But believing in something real.

Enforcing the laws of the land

They forget the good news that made them

Young Pilgrims

Andy, I’ve gotten fat and happy

I wonder if you’d say hey if we passed on the street

I just remember driving down Clearwater together

Young Pilgrims

We kept saying god he’s got a voice

You can’t help but sing like it pulls you

We agreed

Even now as I write this and I think of where you might be

I hum along – Young Pilgrims – you know

God he’s got a voice

***

If you’re interested, this was inspired by The Shins’ song “Young Pilgrims.” Careful: it’s catchy.

 

Fruit

I peer into the bowl
Black wet fruit drip
A sweet acrid smell
Flies
Buzzing ears
Stinging eyes
I poke the rind curious
Choke
The skin gives way
Mush into the core
Sick juice covers my hand
Sounds of moldy muscle
Wretch
Decomposed meat old
Sitting in a bowl of its own
Blood-like sweet liquid
Garbage bottomed
Bowl

Lying Flat and Useless

Bedridden by time, I am

Lying flat and useless

While night’s nothingness

Is drowned out by the sound

Of a rainstorm on my phone,

A gale on my nightstand
My eyelids hang low and heavy

My head pounds quietly to

The rhythm of the rain

While I lie awake with distant thoughts

Running laps from ear to ear

The race won’t end, and my eyes won’t close

Dust

To what I once was I will return
Dust – the dirt under the colt
Maybe His feet will dangle low?

Wave the palms while they’re still green!
Here, take my coat to spread on the road
May His feet feel comfort from sackcloth

……“Who is this?”
………….“Who is this?”
I’d rather yell my answer from amidst the filth
Not seek clean shade under a temple table

The Computer Age

We have arrived at the computer age
When bodies don’t care about the world
But only its images – lights and sounds.
Neon has died. LED shocked her. And,
I struggle with this as I am in between
Generations. I am not obsessed with or
Unwilling to indulge the sultry screen
Who tempts an entire generation to
Disengage and die, eyes bloodshot.
Shaking in the night. Afraid to look away
For fear of missing out. Of not knowing
Where we are or where we’re going.
We have arrived at the computer age
When the world resides in our pockets
Like misplaced hearts. Though we aren’t
Heartless. Only lost and addicted to the
High and mighty love of devices. Vices
Vying for our sight and our whole minds,
Rotting and writhing until they’re wires in
Pools of cream and synapses, electric
And starved, connected only
By weak arcs of interest, fueled by mediocrity
And buzzing. Our necks ache and creak,
Cracking as we make eye contact.
We have arrived at the computer age
When conversations are only whispers
If they exist at all. They are overpowered
By the bass, the treble, the blasts, and
The timbre of metal ringing and yelling over us.
Feedback is our conflict. Static, our boredom.
Binary bleatings from a species so advanced
And stupid that a broken circuit causes chaos.
A dead battery means death of the soul and
There is no way to revitalize and revive.
We only wait, dead in the gutter, overloaded.