my mother was a sunshine of memory

I

there was a short walkway to the duplex 

around which japanese beetles swarmed

my mother was a sunshine of memory yellow at 

the back of my neck

she illuminated the pavement that soon

would cease to be my world

 

II

on Belmont ave alone with a baseball bat

I swung and took the life of a swarm of firefly 

I have long ago forgotten their names

I have since lived in regret and supplication

 

their death lights remind me of the faces of dead cats 

our neighbors killed. 

III

In my dreams I am tormented by two places

a small infinitely growing patch of grass at 

the end of a long suburban street

a gray hulking jug shaped water tower

watching from a distance.

IV

30 years ago I leapt from the top of the

tallest slide in the world

in my memory they have left it standing

after all these years.

Parallel Dystopia

 forward to come to the 

place of hanging wire

the autumn of electric civilization

moss growth on the canopy towers

walking alone

 

 the cables droop like my steps

as sinking into pot holes I watch

into the long lonely paved distance

there is no ride coming to tell of the here now

end of time

 

  I am in possession

of the last threadbare pair 

of mournful jeans

the last immutable skeletal remains

a faint clicking of branches 

brings the final static fall

of the human forest

 blinding smoke whiter than ancient

cloud bodies drift over the corpse of 

the summer afternoon

there is no temperature left

all the mercury having sunk 

into my skin

I can no longer find pockets

for my bloodied hands

I can no longer find skin

to cover their naked flesh

 

 the distant shriek of amnesiac

cell phones have replaced even 

the oldest bird song 

the last human voice lost to antiquity

leaving a message I am not

sure I understand

Darkness

                   I keep the door closed

my hands crack against the fault line

 

it breaks like the spine of a book

folding back spilling letters out

 

the pages rain slowly slipping

under the rug

 

I wonder if the door could open

without me were I to wait

 

there isn't anything left inside

the sound of breath that are not mine

 

the growing distance between myself and the cold

 

a window pane peering behind its own eyes

sees nothing but the light 

party

Standing in that kitchen

The cold tile glowing radiantly under the dying oven light

Late into the morning late into the evening

Leaning against the loose knobs of the cold stove top

Coming down from mushroom acid drunk trip holding a can of beer in my hand

feeling the open flesh under finger nails

Listening to you laugh and the sounds of your voices 

echoing into the darkened walls of the old house I was waiting for the universe 

To halt itself in momentary standstill to split into a billion known possibilities 

to reach the end of its endless trek into the ever sharpening void

Standing in that kitchen wanting to hold each of you forever screaming 

into the abyss of timeless nothing-ness and shadow

Sitting here tonight alone under the foggy light of a winter moon 

wishing it all had come true