Projections

Single file, like in the native's way
to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace.

The leftover and forward
once again make sign to a favorite son.

They pause and worship a clay idol,
as much contrite as devoted.

Forgive me friend their eyes say,
"I was not there".

Or, forget me friend,
"There was more than I could handle".

The idol responds to the
deep wishes of their heart,

projecting back upon the somber
all that they desire.

They will carry now a piece,
each a piece of the pain

and nurture a wound in proportion
to what their projection's demand.

Resignation to a certain fact

It's intrepidity,
is resignation to a certain fact.
But it's haunting, too.

A countenance negated,
when for once a blank stare lives
as the mind in that moment,
with all blood let
and costly service rendered.

There is no roadmap for spells
concluding enduring sagas,
and the intrepid know that.

I'll admire from afar
and wonder on the strength of
those survivors as they quarter
amid the spent minefield.

They might say there is
no strength in tattered ends,
	all life is a process
	of will and action.

They might say that standing still
in the face of the unmitigated
is an admission of human frailty.

Respectively, I say:
	Let me admire.
	Let me reflect.

Stillness is strength

especially in the hour of the unmitigated.

Weight of the prolonged

Under the weight
of the prolonged
rests the peaceful
disintegration
of a name.

			What is your hope?

It is feeling,
oozing past reality
to where experience
suffers spasmodic fits.

It is the long 
and sullen
attaining 
critical mass.

(The belief that)
with a push from
the other side,
the anguish disperses
and comes relief.

Maybe this is 
where you find
it.
In the remembering.
In the soothing.

To mean,
to suffer --
sister soldiers
of internal discourse.
To verily believe
the unbelievable.

For TJ, for myself

That I may remember the man and the moment

during sunny-side soon-eves,
we stood thoughtful, wondering:
are there waders in the offing?

with blasted hollow tethers 
beneath us sounding depths.
and rickety planks, the boundless energy 
fusing one in to the other,
over and above a customary step.

"I've a mind to dive!"
and set self-sinking in the sludge
to wrest from this paralytic 
a darkened grip fathoms below
the surface plain.

Cheapened talk then, hearty to me now,
but arresting a bold effort.
Here lies a preface to a promise:
reclamation of that tether.

Time was time did not matter;
only the attempt,
to attempt anything was a living proof.

With dynamism, accoutrements,
and slipping awkwardly beneath the still;
all weight shifting,
cask like,
then pushing and probing a wasteland.

Mine eyes were weak there.
That trait so roundly prized
owed nothing from the deep
and so, received nothing just.

Cutting through surface slop,
wrapped in film,
a grin resting familiarly with
the ferocity of youthful error.

Failure?  But a moment.
Success as well,
and a bond formed fit and deep
worked its way inside.

The knife that spoke with a buzz

This is a funny little piece I worked up after I heard an interesting story about the first use of forensic entomology — yes, using insects to solve a crime.

In the smallest nooks
live the slickest crooks,
using sharpest wares
to strike at maidens fair.

Bet that evil hounds
plumb the open grounds
as day turns to night
to exercise their might.

So in a village green
far from active scenes, 
came a man who stood beside
a newly minted bride. 

The man, filled with temper,
did her body half dismember
and escape like a breeze
before the break of eve.

But the foulest must admit
that sharper minds do acquit
the cause of justice fast
and pursue until their last.

As county men took over,
staunch as that county boulder,
and lined up all existent
observing each with insistence.

"Drop your wares friend
and let us not pretend
that the vile and refuting
will halt me in my duty."

So all spilt their wares
upon the township square.
They did look for a savior
and divine, merciful favor.

Ah, twas not god on the brain
for county copper plain,
but the nature of a buzz
around a man of woolen fuzz.

As copper proceeded toward
he soon spotted his reward.
It seems flies cannot resist
where fresh blood doth persist.

That resounding buzz upon the knife
told a tale that must be told:
the slick and vile murder of a wife
who never shall grow old.