The Invasion

Love lost lacking.  Brutal contributions from the master of the filthy undercurrent—swords, bombs, bayonets, flexing madmen and bloodcurdling sounds of dysfunctional regret—

WTF—Belly-side under, still sore from the stumble up the porch—rippled are the emanations my blood made as it sashayed across the puddles in the front hall, knew I should’ve used the insurance money to pay for repairs, but you know, sometimes, just need what you need…WTF, (take a peek out the window)

Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left,

Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right, Left, Right,

Bright lights, not the inner city I’m used to…not anything like anything at all—well, it’s like something, just don’t know what that is, and really, haven’t seen this much commotion since the riots back in ’98, and that was all about some bad call in a game, but Marching feet moving in rhythm and cadence, seriously what the hell, who’s birthday is it anyway, (what is the occasion?)

Sounds above, sirens rise and fall, the streets all cluttered, (better stay indoors), so much metal, so much steel, (be damned if I’m going out there, I’m the kind of guy someone does something to, just to prove a point, nope, staying put)

Loudspeaker off and on, don’t recognize the voice, can’t make out the words, (better keep the drapes shut and the lights on dim. No! Make that OFF)

Cat knows about as much as I do.  It doesn’t seem as scared as I feel though…(have to keep composure, have to keep things together), phones all dead, television works but nothing seems to make any sense, invasion, unknown assailants, unknown, unknown, unknown, static…. television about as good off as it is on, perhaps under the present circumstances, better even (guess I’ll just wait this out, let the heroes do their thing, and I’ll live up to expectations just fine in here) 

Time, time, turning without a witness to bear…yet ceaselessly parading forth…

(Good thing this house is a piece of crap, they’ll probably think it’s condemned, hopefully that’s the case anyhow, as I really don’t feel like doing anything I’m not used to, this isn’t what I’m built for, this isn’t my mission anyhow, so I’ll just try to sleep this off, but doubt the sandman will come on this particular night?)

I know it’s not going to go away.  I’ve seen a lot of bullshit in my small sample set, but, this isn’t like anything I can think of, no comparisons at all, nothing even close, and anything that doesn’t end up with me dead is a good outcome, right? 

Luckily I have a lot of cereal and plenty of powdered milk, that should last a week or two and that much foresight, in itself, is beyond anything I’m used to)

Arbitrarily regimented and statistically irrelevant…in a case like this, is all anyone can honestly hope for…

P.S.  If the draft is sending chills throughout the floor, then, by all means…

Shut the God damned door…

Darkened Panes

listen to ‘Darkened Panes’ on Audioboo

It’s the scar tissue type

         of hope,

the kind that’s

drawn too far past—

 the frayed lines

of sympathetic appeal—

          

It’s the moistened blanket

twice applied to feverish brows—

molested by dampening tears

escaping their shadow’s cell

It’s the weathered apparel

hesitantly breathing

yet often lacking the design

of symmetry—

dividing the pangs of ulcers deep;

         below the crested veil, yet well above

         the coded resolve—

It’s these battles

waged in a cuneiform of turmoil

amongst the bridging gaps of confused allegiance—

where cultural dignity is pitted so squarely

against the necessities of economy

It’s the imposter behind the curtain

in the back room with the purposefully darkened

panes of glass

                  “Not the one where…”

“Yes, that’s the one…

         where good mothers and fathers alike,

         tell tales of exaggerated consequence

before applying the forehead’s midnight kiss goodnight”

It’s these stories

that can make one wonder what exactly was seen

to prompt such tales, that are remembered all too easily

was it an unnatural gleam—

or a bothersome tic—that

marred the desired fabric of their creations frequency

It’s the words of a storyteller, relaying:

warnings—

             as subtle overtures of persuasion,

                                    unintended to incite implication,  

yet performed, in such a way,

where a tad too little premonition,

is weighed upon, as to how

  potential seeds

already have been,

inadvertently delivered somehow—

never considering the fragility of

         a child’s mind, where fractured

and faulty filters have yet been taught

It’s these moments

of self-revelation

that act as epiphanies—

          as warnings

of what could be,

if we,

choose not to act

accordingly

It’s these memories

         that we remember all too well,

as we sit

patiently behind

our darkened

         panes of glass

For Open Link Night over at D'Verse.  Be sure to head on over there, the Bar's open and the poetry is flowing fierce.  Sit back, grab a glass and enjoy.  If you've a poem of your own you'd like to share, simply step up to the mike and join in on the weekly fun.