50 spins 'round a star

I've ruptured aspirations,

slicing my imagination,

the memories bleeding out

into the last vestiges of summer.

An accidental tripping, stumbling,

crashing into aging,

convulsing on the edges,

cracking wise before the fall.

I've torn asunder wonder

and my civic standing today,

the neighbors - slinking caffeine junkies -

take their sojourn elsewhere.

As the weather turns from August swelter

to September autumn amber,

I wander through my yesteryear book,

making sick upon the page.

She's half gone, slipping softly

through my psyche today,

speaking a language I can't fathom

with a hope that's not named Bob.

That piece of her remaining rains down

hatred dressed as passion,

as I surrender punch drunk

on the wrong side of my needs.

Finally, a steely-eyed truth arises:

50 years of breathing,

knocking me flat back on the floorboards,

staring up at the ceiling looking down.

raining afterthoughts

it's raining

afterthoughts before her,

blowing

pissed-off into the wind.


Somewhere Monday

but not yet.

Sometime tomorrow

but not now.

Somehow broken

yet unbowed.

Some things tear

and won't cauterize.

My mind is a patchwork broken,

threaded with cobwebs

and moody medicine,

aching to break clear

just once.


My past is taking on water,

soaked with salt

and nausea's backwash,

passing as nerves

chewed to cheesy bread,

cloaked in this carcass

I call home.