I ripped the stuffing from my bed 

and stuffed the cotton in my mouth

I tried to get rid of the taste from my mouth

I dumped a bottle of  bleach onto my skin to get rid of the scent

I painted over the walls to cover up the evidence.

I tacked the holes in the wall

that you punched through.

I scrubbed my hands until every trace was gone.

I sunk into my mattress

and let the springs dig into my skin

I let the foam absorb into my mind

I let the cotton clog my throat

I let the blood seep into the carpet

along with my soul

I tried to climb out 

But my bed swallowed me .....

So I'm at the local Mexican

Immersed in the holocaust

Fueled by anger and beans

I let fluffy off the chain

I'm in front of the TV

Watching the president elect

Swallowing hatred and beer

I let fluffy off the chain

In the elevator

Surrounded by fellow drones

Sucking in stale air and self hatred

I let fluffy off the chain

I'm walking the wife's shitzu

We get to the park

Wide open spaces

I let Fluffy off the chain

Ode to the little chipmunk

A quick little sprite

Dressed up in striped colors

All for my delight

He dashes like lightning

And finds a spot to see

Where his adventures will take him

A moment of stillness to be

And off he goes -

Gone from my sight,

Scampering through crunchy leaves

With all of his might

Often, it's all I can do to look.

Look here. Over there.

Can you stand the sight of what's behind you?

Do you close your eyes against what's ahead?

Some days, I'm only the one who looks.

Most times, it doesn't to a lot of good to think about where I stand.

Doesn't stop me.

From the few days I let thoughts overpower me.

If I can just get you here with me, on this road with the houses that are built exactly alike, but have different doors and different colors of brick, maybe. Maybe something.

The one I lived in for years was the first built. On the corner, lefthand side, all the way down. Before that, meadows bursting with bees and those tiny, buzzing, numerous gnats lined either side of the lone street, another connecting it to a small road, another connecting it to town.

I smile. I was little. I liked the flowers - I picked them for Mommy a lot.

You know, I think a part of me mourned each time another "home" was built and the trucks pulled in and another dozer dug, and that section of riotous color was forever gone from those fields.

Ironically, our subdivision was called The Meadows.

And as I grew, the flowers dwindled as people paid more and more money for bigger and larger houses.

Every now and then, when spring comes, I look at the small spaces between them at the stems and petals that still break ground.

Not as many, not as much color. But they're there. And a soft uptilt at the corners of my mouth bring tears to my eyes.

I'm here, too. I made it, but I'm not what I used to be either.

I have these days and these moments and I wonder what the block will look like years from now.

What I will look like years from now.

God, I'm just a kid.

And then I think. That maybe I won't make it to far enough to change much. Never very productive, thoughts like that.

What flowers remain are pretty, and ugly. The stubborn weeds that occasionally bloom a flower. Awareness that allows resistance that allows survival.

Is that what I am?

Maybe, as I look.

Is that what I'm like?

Maybe, as I think.

Frogs flop

Fish flip

Snakes slither

Squealing, screaming, skipping

Laughing lollygagging

Whistling whirling

Buds blossom

Ripen regret

Decay depart

How much poetry

would you like?

Three gross of words

more or less clever

or an ounce of nice?

We write to measure. 

Three lampposts threaten my darkness

As I drink to the moon and me

Under the influence of nature’s white noise

Waves, stars pure in the Grecian night sky

I thumb the ring around my finger

A palladium of love

Hearts and forties

As water takes me through chapter and verse

I’m so bohemian and unrehearsed

No life plan, just a feeling and a wish

Loaded with a kiss

Infected with debauchery

And a pirate’s heart

I’m the oldest I’ll ever be this year

Not mentally and physically

Just figuratively

Pieces of eight cut in half

By rapscallion’s teeth

Doubled by the blessings of a thief

I listen to the waves as I toy with my mind

Reinforce the serenity of this time

As my thoughts stray and play

If you’ve read above you already know I’m away

In thought as they say…

I stand where the lights bleach the night

Where unnatural energy stains the sky

As I gravitate towards the darker depths

The world that spins when the Devil collects

The witching hour and beyond

Isn’t for the Wiccan children like it was written so long ago

It’s for something else that you couldn’t know

Unless you’ve felt the magic

The secret glow

Where the land and sea stretches out of sight

Where the moon appears closer than you think

Where the day fades out of sight

And the silhouettes on the shore

Remind me of you

Threatening the darkness…

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

 I doubt that anyone will ever read the words written within these pages. No friend or family, certainly. And these poor souls that wait with me in our hours of fading life can none of them read. They have treated me as an equal, with such kindness that my heart, weak as it is, still beats painfully to any compassion. If they knew my origins of office, I wonder if they might be so sympathetic, or would there be resentment and cruelty? What comes when a life is condemned to death? It seems that all those poets I once admired can feed nothing to the overwhelming emptiness. Matthew said that each man dies alone, but I still wish there were a familiar face to see before the darkness.

It can be nothing to you, reader, if you exist. These are the ramblings of a dying man and ramblings they must be, for my hand grows tired and my thoughts become blurry, but I will try to explain. Perhaps for my own gratification alone, or perhaps because there is something to be learned by my story. I imagine, as I write, that the words are being read aloud in some distant, cold voice that is not my own. Are we given to premonitions or do we merely make guesses that chance dictates are right or wrong? The question is one I will never answer.

Rock. 

Rock. Paper. 

Rock. Paper. Scissors.

Rocks.

More rocks.

1, 2, 3...

Futile to count.

Rocks as far as the eye can see. 

And then some.

Rocks for miles.

And miles and miles.

Trees erupt here and there, seemingly out of place.

And shrubberies, for Monty Python fans.

Oh, and concrete.

Acres of concrete.

Rocks, lonely trees, assorted shrubberies, and concrete.

Welcome to Las Vegas.

Arid.

Desert.

Hotter than hell.

Although that is pure speculation.

Rock. Paper. Scissors.

Lizard. Spock.

The lizard would be happy.