we were made out of

sugarcane

carved out of cherry wood

strung together and

yanked at the seams,

catapulted into the sky.

and repeat,

as predictable

as the spinning

of the earth

held to the ground with

toothpicks

sleeping in flowerbeds

souls sprouting

roots and clinging

to the soil.

like eyeless wanderers,

like breathless astronauts,

like foolish mortals

buried at the edge of

the atmosphere

:

beginning anew

each day

graphite trails silver down blue wrists,

the winter's sky a steel-grey slate.

this is eternity, identical computer tabs,

sunken eyes and uniform steps.

The tears snap against the linoleum,

clicking like so many mechanical pencils,

sputtering chains of letters and numbers and self-worth

across the sterile floor.

a vernal flower in the ides of the year

a crocus made of golden tears.

ashes spilled from winter's urn

snow is turned to slog as sun rises in the morn,

the march of spring across the winter-trodden fields

leaving gold and sun at its radiant heels.

patties frying on open grills,

until from the skies, the water spills.

a vernal flower in the ides of the year,

brief beauty that perseveres.

I can’t imagine

going back there.

the thought of it

is suffocating, yet…

no, no,

no thoughts of

glimmering memories

that posed themselves

as gold,

but turned skin green.

a corpse lies in my bed.

bathed in blue light, foggy eyes

stamped on an unmoving head.

it's growing fungus along the spine,

colored in reds, purples - fire and wine.

mushrooms lift from the sheets,

painting a skyline of decay, haunted

by that unearthly blue horizon.

light coming off that small device

embossed in still palms.

a simple, rectangular box, metal and silver

a coffin of it's own kind -

but somehow the picture i paint

is still beautiful, in a way.

we all die a little at night,

it's just the way the world turns.

so why not make death just

a bit more sublime?

after all,

we'll be dead a lot longer

than we'll be alive.

I am looking at the scars on the back of my hands,

the little ones,

a crescent across one knuckle,

nicked playing warrior with wooden swords.

The one at my fingertip,

from learning how to cut onions,

pulling swim goggles over watering eyes,

laughing around the tears.

When I tell her I know her like the back of my hand,

I am referring to this place,

all splinters and sweetness,

and a thousand other moments that have faded with time.

When I tell her I know her

like the back of my hand,

I wonder if she realizes

I don't know her at all.

golden, cracked, and delicate

as the heart i've been given

wrapped in candy stripes and evergreen leaves

sordid, restless, absent

whispering into darkness for too long

tear out a strip of sunshine, darling

claim it for your own skin

running, whirling, radiant starlight

crackling beneath the bones

and now, just sing

you smell like honey, gingerbread

and the promise of snow,

my winter sun,

dripping slowly from a jar

sticky fingertips and a trace of nutmeg,

tangerine zest, your love

and all those trickling stars,

lost in the beating

of a pulse,

almost as if powder sugar

slowly coating

our raspberry hearts

My hometown exists simply because it is the exact midway point between Memphis and Birmingham, so the Kansas City, Memphis and Birmingham Railroad put a stop there to service their trains.

Amory, Ms. is a small (7k inhabitants), fairly insignificant railroad town. My grandmother's father ran the hotel there at the turn of the twentieth century. She used to tell me about standing on the platform and waving at the passing troop trains... both WWI and WWII. The most exciting thing I can remember happening there in my lifetime was being awarded a lock on the Tombigbee Waterway. Three of my four grandparents were born and died in that tiny town. The fourth left on one of those troop trains and was fortunate enough to be brought back home for his burial. Most weren't so lucky in them days.

She is is a good town, with good people. They don't have a lot, but to say they are poor is a lie. They are happy, mostly. They are content with God, America, and Family. They work hard, play hard, and they care about one another, although they are distrustful of outsiders. You would be too if all you ever got was screwed by'em. Fun fact; the Apache word for stranger is the same as the Apache word for enemy. It is no different with someone from Amory.

Even I am looked at with suspicion there. I, who call it my hometown. That is because I never lived there. I was born there, and taken away for a job. Funny thing is, the last time I walked down Main Street in Amory an old men walked over to ask if I was "Big Bill's Boy?" I am not. I am in fact Big Bill's Grandson, but it about made me burst with pride, anyhow. Big Bill died in 1969. The family I have left in Amory are all in the ground, but one day I hope to go back, to lie with them, to make it "my hometown" for real.

In the meantime, I just call it home.

The building had 60 stories

and he was 60 years old

Still cleaning it from bottom to top

for the past 35 years

one thing remained unchanged

as time passed

the coldness

Every surface he’d ever touch would

be as cold as the glass

of a window in the winter

And the people who

worked in the building were

pale and cold as vampires

He forgot how it was to be saluted

or how it was to salute

and get a reply

No one talked to the janitor

No one knew his name

No one cared

There were no souls in this isolated

monolith

that stood in the center

overlooking other monoliths

Hell is cold

and monotonous

and plays constant factory noises

or keyboard noises

and exudes smoke

Even the plants were made of

plastic and their flowers

and leaves had to be sprayed with alcohol

and wiped with a rag

Real plants wouldn’t

accept such treatment

They would punish you with their death

and that should be enough

But not for those pale vampires

The only thing alive

was him, the janitor

who imagined jazz music playing in

his mind as he scrubbed the tiles

and one mushroom that grew behind one of the

toilets in the women’s bathroom from

a used pad

He left it there for days

It was his little secret, his little friend

in this world of soulless beings

It was life sprouting against

impossible odds

Life in hell

It was something to look up to

every day

Something to kneel before and say

hello to and sing jazz to

and even pat gently with the finger

He promised himself that the day that

mushroom died

he would retire

So far it was still alive

Still sprouting spores that he

inhaled

and tasted with his tongue after

rubbing it gently with his finger

Living beings

stick together

regardless of species

Just like the dead do

***

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