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Jailbreak, 1988
Dead truck slouched deep
in a ditch. Stern sun glaring down
over the hills upon wide empty fields.
Dirt road yawning out toward
somewhere in between.
Foul mouthed kid peddling along,
blowing off steam and dust
from his wheels, riding away
from home and the litany
of injustices under that roof,
toward a taunting, always elusive
horizon – one late afternoon
in early June.
Dreams Of Motion
Some other spring. Some other place
& time. From the old Victorian on the hill
it’s possible to glean a brighter perspective
while the blood-red tulips in the garden
drip their dew at your feet.
Enter the gated woods. Follow the path
to the overlook. Nestled below,
the little toy town, quiet and still,
morning fog lifting its veil
over the grey green valley
sprawled out before you.
Suddenly, nothing appears half as bleak.
You might even suspend your disbelief
for a moment or two and imagine flight,
wings in the shape of wheels,
some sun-drunk afternoon, windows
down, blazing through those distant hills
toward unknown destinations
as the old dreams pick up speed again,
heart-pounding acceleration,
blinding forward motion.
Unfolding The Day
The usual morning time bomb
going off in your ear.
The shuffle of familiar footsteps in the hall
that were never actually there.
The afternoon rain that came
hard and fast, washing out the sun,
along with all your little plans.
The dreamless nap.
Waking up with the cat
snoozing on your chest.
The extreme shift of light.
When did day become night?
The longing and lament
for all that you left
untouched and undone.
Baggage
Baggage in the twilight.
Baggage in your sleep.
Baggage in the morning.
Baggage at your feet.
Baggage on the stairs.
Baggage on the street.
Baggage to burn.
Baggage to keep…
Desolation road
This empty road interwines
with the ghostly landscape,
melting behind the fog
and the fields and the twilight.
The accelerator does nothing
to soothe your nerves.
There are miles of bare emptiness
in all directions, and you are alone
out here, highbeams piercing the void
of oncoming darkness.
Then, over a rise, the phantom moon
appears, low but there, a buttermilk haze
floating through the trees as the car coasts
down into cold valley mist.
The GPS has been silent
for countless miles,
and suddenly you think how
there is something lost and beautiful
and terrifying in that –
not missing the mystery
of where a road leads,
where a road ends.
This Is The Place
The door is barred.
The windows are all boarded up.
There is moss on the steps.
The grass is knee high and yellow.
The roof is caving in.
There are two old tire rims
rusting away by the porch.
The dusty driveway is choked
with wandering weeds.
This is the place we grew into.
This is the place we shrank from
when our lives fell into disrepair.
This is where we lived
when the paint was fresh and the grass
so goddamn green.
Wind
The wind is a feral animal tonight,
moaning, circling, lashing out –
random acts of violence in our midst.
The little lights on the front porch
rock about maniacally, glittering
against the glass, a ghostly mirror ball
inviting us to dance to the wind chimes
chilling melody. The dog barks incessantly,
issuing stern warnings
to the invisible intruder.
Perhaps she is telling it
what we are all thinking.
Leave us. Leave us in peace.
Leave us now! Just please, don’t leave us
in the dark.
Stormfront
The darkness is growing.
The north wind is blowing.
The swollen river is rushing
like a stampede of harried horses
between the banks.
The damp night air
is met by an earthy prayer
for fragrant life to reclaim
cold muddy ground.
Here in the nervous shadows,
another candle is lit
piercing the darkness where we sit
listening to furious sweeps of rain
beat fists against the glass.
When will the big surge come?
How much damage will be done?
When will it all come to an end?
Where will the dawn light find us?
Haunted Avenues 