On the Brink
The mountains stretch behind me
Wind blew me out of town
The morning sun will blind me
I rode the highway down
My friends won’t let me settle
I begged for scraps all day
Their mouths turned harsh as metal
They tore my heart away
The sweep of time will bleed you
It forces you to roam
Somebody else might need you
To find their way back home
A gauze of fog has lifted
As dawn broke through the cold
Bright banks of snowflakes drifted
I saw foothills painted gold
Smoker’s Lament
I pace the halls like a zombie leaking
blood and fire:
It must have been the fog, injecting a
disease I cannot bear.
But when I tried to set it down,
it burrowed into my throat.
I will never sing
at birthday parties again.
Turned out that sip of molten lava was
really an invitation to the cosmos.
All ‘round the rooms, explosive
tangles of lightning and wire.
Their sizzling and thunder orchestrate
like a sadist’s tune.
The waiting, at least, is familiar:
Remember those vacant afternoons
stoned on lethargy, confusion
dissipating to disgust.
Creeping shadows reflecting
the loneliness in your eyes.
When you touched your face
you found it numb as earth,
like you were buried already.
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