Skip to main content

Wood and Nailed

This is no life
For a man in his thousands,
A man with his spine
In the beginnings of Giza sand
And Peruvian mountains,
And his boot heel dragging lines
On the far side
Of prophesied planets.
I was society’s idea,
Not the reverse.
If I were to build
A box to live in,
I would make holes for breath,
And to remember the breeze
And the light
Of suns and moons.
There is fresh wood on the bench
In front of me; sat upon
Until it gave out,
Unable to cope
With its intention,
The purpose chosen for it,
For the golden planks
That once knew solace in trees.
Now the wood is replaced,
Purpose renewed, because
For men to sit
And look at waves
Is a need that must
Be satisfied.
There is no shortage
Of metaphors.
All I had to do
Was raise my head.


I really enjoyed this, especially the 'planks that once knew solace in trees' and 'I was society's idea'.
Rob Kistner said…
I enjoyed your piece ST, and appreciate the thought you put into this work. gave out,
Unable to cope
With its intention,

Like this.

Popular posts from this blog

Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.

The Day My Brother Flew

The day my brother flew,
I prayed for the last time;
Asked for his acceptance,
A chance to say goodbye.
Stood inside the chapel,
Whispered through the motions,
Knowing in my chest
I did not believe.
Months gone from that day,
I stood inside a basement,
Staring out the window,
Chainlink in my eyes.
A host of white lights came,
Gathered right beside me,
Waited till I turned,
Slowly sank away.
I never told my folks.
They could not believe it.
I don't know what I saw,
If I’m lying to myself.
The day my brother flew,
I sat down on a stairstep,
Fingers in my hair,
Asking why I breathe.
He lived and enjoyed life.
I don’t even like it.
That was '91;
The answer never came.

This Is How They Talk

There's another part, always,
that doesn't want to go,
a shape more practiced
than my humble sincerities,
my tilted resolutions.

I forget to relax my knees,
That I should soften my jaw,
take lessons from the glass,
from the sidelong blurs,
and oblong silhouettes;

take in the everyday words
That clatter around my body.
I should brush against these threads,
learn their girth and texture.

This is how they move,
in great thrusts, driven
by asteroids and thunder.

This is how they talk,
in echos and gasps,
looking right at you.