Oracle of Regret – A Poem

Old railcars on an unused line
stand forgotten. Decay.
All rust.
And overgrown weeds.

I regret this fortune.

It was never our intention that night
but then the wild moon
and the orange dress
and the curve of the river.
There was the devil at the store front
window splattered in blood who
raffled bondage.

“It’s just a skip stone step ladies
and gentlemen. Just a skip stone
step. Here you go.
Here you
go”

Holding hands we laughed
at our dark reflections. The smell
of liquorice bringing a hell
unlike anything
we expected.

“Samuel, Samuel, why do you talk about the rail cars?”
She moved with a pretentious walk which
I venerate
still.

Rust settles into my bones
and weeds claw at my lungs.

The air was hot and humid
and with how her hips
shaped that dress…
ah,
never mind. Along the tree
lined thoroughfare, the cries
were drowned out
by music from a nearby
carousel.

Her breath was so close
and the river so
timid.

Rail cars stand neglected.
I am the fortunate oracle of regret.

We were complicit in a mutual
denial. Her lips on me.
“Why the railcars, dear Samuel?”
My hand on her thigh
just a skip stone
step.

The water pooled and swirled. A vision
of stars was muted.

Private Asylum – A Poem

There are never any images in my mind.
Only words.
Or more specifically the shadows of words.
You don’t understand.
I am not a living soul.
Or a living man.
Just a ruined afterthought.

We step outside and into
our private asylum.
A strangling maze strips
us and closes
in
all about.

It’s raining.
I pull up an umbrella and under it
we listen to the water fall.
The puddles freeze.

You recall how one time on a drive as a child the sunlight
came through the windshield
of your father’s truck
bathing the cabin in a sickly whiteness
and highlighting the deep cracks and crevices
on the skin of his left hand
which gripped the steering wheel in a lazy confidence,
slightly off center,

to the right.
“There was this customonial boundary
that I became aware of, then,” you tell me. “A limitation
imposed in all of us by design.”

I become frightened by this
realization
and would shut my eyes
but fear losing you if I should.

“And how this barrier is real.
How it roots an eternal
consciousness
and separates our perception.
It’s a garden that exists in the paradise
of a scorched earth.
There is a beauty in how
ridiculously
desperate it is.”