Decrepit Illuminations
Scraps from my time in the Motor City.
Grief weaves through time. Portraits of joy and depression spring from the well of life. Half-standing buildings set against the blooming crocuses of the season. A city crumbling surrounds my time this week as I stay with my family who works through the tumultuous process of loss.
She is dead, the mother of my mother, beloved by many. Time slips through trembling fingertips and all is gone, faded by it. In the belly of darkness, illuminations resound in stained glass forms. These scraps make up a mind-maps of souls meeting, twisting, changing, and releasing.
- SCRAP FROM THE INEBRIATION OF MEMORY-
—Dawn of dawns. Home in the decrepit. Sunshine through thick clouds. Silent purr of breaths.
A car honks. No one around. The traffic speeds ‘round. This petulant thought persists.
Trees bud. A dog wanders free. Crime trials on the scene. Damp earth, soft beneath feet.
Memory lives within me, a strangled being. Funeral home hookup. Concrete rumbling city. All the lust for life and loathing.
Cops and kids, off the lid. Circling this form precipitating. A percolated drink. Trembling afternoon where I sink.
The long lost revival kicks in. Gums bloated. Reefer itch. The choir joins in to sing.
And my sisters travel from school in their uniforms, knowing not my divisive world. And off on streets unknown, one wanders. And in the belly of Spring I ride and rise. And my cigarette crumples as it burns.
A shit tattoo I wish could be erased as well as the lingering pain. The mirroring of hurt to hurt. Wounds bloom with crocuses. Caskets to be carried, dropped into dirt.
Shed the anchor. Pick up the call. Don’t make a sound. Lift the shade and your spirit.
Tribulations tepid. A door slams. Shimmer of tinsel across the dead lawn. Swallow the ache and gaze up to the gray abyss.
Float off in the delirium of chatter. A fan humming as the sunset drops. My head splintered. Recovery in the tread marks, tracing back time to worlds dripping, to worlds dropped, shards on the shiny wood floor, scoop ‘em up, stained glass is the cathedral of my becoming.—
-SCRAPS FROM THE DEN OF REKINDLED SOULS-
(Made possible by the enduring nature of true friendship - and the meeting of muses in coffee opiated warmth, through tar, illuminated in mirrored lives)
-( From the antiqued collection made possible by a soul-string of fates colliding with my pious friend
)-
-SCRAP FROM MIDNIGHT SABBATH-
Mumble of tv, singing ‘em off to sleep. Music muted. Ring shined and pristine. Gummed up and talking.
Worn eyes of thine. A rain symphony. Scent of chemical dye. All lit, the glowing of roads and villages.
Long talks of lives gone by. A future in limbo. Career stasis. Tar burn.
Hit the head. Ramble on. Home as a hymn - an unbecoming. Step into ones true skin.
Learn the walk of the pious. Political jabber. A captured time trapped in amber. Pieces torn and glued - creating me and you.
Coffee by ten. His head anointed by darkness. The gleam of soul ties. Karmic abundance.
What has passed us by. Concrete temple in the earth. All the windows open to storm. A house to die in slow decay.
Embers fizzle. A dipped violet smoothie spilled. The torn up and the beloved. Rage to the nights bleak embalming.
Casket flowers. Neon was the ending. Fade off to family chatter. Crocus renewal.
The highway and the metaphor for frail life forms. Sun dips as minutes lift. The tube screams. What I should be.
Intubated and dehydrated. Say it again. Washer hums. Cycles to ride through.
Dawn brings promise. Stand on the sabbath and face thy mirror image. Smoke and penitence. Glory be to the father who loves through his faltering.
And blessed be thy mother with outstretched hands of helping. Fools gold rushed by youth on the ripe edge of opportunity. To be seen is sacred. To be loved in truth is to have inherited earths heaven.