murder is a place, death is a journey...

photo by Rick Hartford ©

is liberty the flight away or a statue-bastard word

with a clear view

this kingdom is a nude place

that reveals who we are

the glass tells me something

mirror, mirror what is nearer

my madness or complete apathy

have I become a dried food

exchanging scents for salt and

thirsty flesh drawing bridges

to and from what I choose

to remember

dreams will come

swirl the lines

color the patterns

history is purposely vague

it is why, in the morning

lurching traffic and the sounds

of school children make their way

through the radio short waves

they crackle, cackle and dance

with Mahler and urgent calls for donations

I turn it off when the music stops and

bask in a post industrial wind and battery sound

a micro-mechanical kelp sea of silence

every noise like cotton in my ears

gathers with associated words and images

in a progression of wars

pointed guns and regress

the best modern men can get

is walled cities understood

I get that I have to dress the part

if I want to punch my meal ticket in this land

but right now I don't mind collecting

5 and 10 cent bottle returns to pay for fuels

malt liquor is a quicker way to walk

cemeteries talk to me

they wait with their own language

by the entrances, laughing

knowing the crows could see before anyone

that I cut off my arms

I’ve put off begging as long as possible

and even though, I no longer trust my humanity 

it doesn't mean I want to live entirely by scavenging

nor does it mean I want to die like a king

it just means that breathing

is the best I can do today and

tomorrow, tomorrow creeping

at its petty pace

will simply have to wait

EJR ©