Writing, Ideas, & Stories
take a wandering trout
fake laundering bail out”
–
the mass centers around
a moldy
defaced statue,
“Sir Char Brook”
they decided to keep it
a reminder-
–
“we do this every year!”
they screamed
hollered
cheered,
“take a wandering trout
fake laundering bail out”
–
the unjust
lingering
aroma.
crowded-
rotten trout
knee high-
and still
i tap my foot-
“take a wandering trout
fake laundering bail out”
i seem ’em
in my sleep.
walking to the mall
chatting with my family
wearing my clothes.
–
it doesn’t bother me
unless i move-
–
like a game-
at the slightest
twitch-
–
it’s summoned-
removes the existence
of lights- hope.
bedside
peering over,
glacially shadow cowl
eyes replaced
by blackened stones
wine breath waxes
the hair from my face.
–
if-
if i dare resist-
it’ll bare fangs-
shivering fangs
and a smile.
tracing withered claws
along hurried breath,
like a surgeon.
–
if i scream
let a whisper
escape-
it carries-
like a laugh.
& it’ll join
like an inside
joke.
–
we locked our books
under sacred law-
with a key
and hid it-
in our pockets.
he carved through them
like rare steak.
fingers sharp as knives-
decorated the lab-
ripped white coats
and fresh red paint.
–
elevators turn-
stomachs rise-
decor erased
buckets
and heavy black bags-
except one-
–
one man-
shelved on the lone
operation table-
shivering, absent
praying.
no gods
were present here.
–
the man lunges
drives his fist-
weakened
under my chin
revealing a golden
stained rosary-
still clutched, still present.
–
“did you see anything,
do you
remember.”
i know-
he can’t.
–
decay spews
from his opened belly,
death fills the table-
the rosary drifted
fallen-
to the laboratory floor,
–
“home.”
our memory of you
jaded.
titan-
marred-
crown.
her eyes- gutted
not sure where
the mascara starts
and the river ends.
pale white
numb skin
peaks through
an all black veil.
petrified-
what do i say-
what could i-
all the joyous stories
songs i’ve sung
happy credits,
void.
a lie.
what could i say-
to silence a screaming wraith
to unbury the dead
like a cleaning a fire
with a broom.
stuttering approach
steps fall deaf
on her sobbing ears-
her palms sit vacant
lowered in her lap-
a bucket.
icy damp palms,
–
i’ll hold her hand,
if she’ll let me-
the warmth-
it’s all
i have
underneath the lie
forge
our truth
broke bread
alongside
a clipped mallard
his name-
bold golden embroidery
across his regal leather jacket
over a ferocious mane
aviators held up over his grand beak
talons tucked into tawny gloves
his wide wingspan expanding across-
a righteous matching decal- the Griffin.
the Griffin, readied
roaring-
the spared prey gathered
heat pulsated from the runway
tearing the flesh from our bones
no one dared blink-
squawking-
than-
vanished.
for the feeding ground.
“do you want to hear a joke?”
“who doesn’t?”
she paused, lowered her chin
the tv visible for a second-
“viene el centro! buscando al delantero!”
clearing her throat,
“why couldn’t the defense see the futbol?”
the waiter swung around
clearing the wing remains from the table
“mm i do not know, why?”
the bar raised simultaneously,
“because the defense cleared it!”
she fell off her stool
and in her creasing eyes-
“Goooooooaall!!”
Saint's Muse 