i wrestled in my bed with sweat and demons
as madness tore into my febrile mind
the burning from inside that brooks no pretense
the loneliness that’s always there to find

across a rope-bridge chasm you were staring
amid a blaze of red and wild face
but no amount of shouting broke the silence
and no amount of running closed the space

but how your look seared into me with loathing
the river down below was all afire
i longed to bring you back and home to safety
but felt the platitude in my desire

in vision-tangled sheets i woke to humming
the sound of air-conditioned ambience
i rose to splash my face and drink some water
with little hope and little left of sense

i stare now at a screen that sits impassive
i’m not sure who i am or how i feel
it’s strange that after all the things i’ve been through
it’s only in my dreams
that life seems

Old Poem, Age 8

I wish I could be like the leaves
And simply blow away,
For then I wouldn’t have to go
To school again today.

The teacher always yells at me,
And says I do things wrong —
I think I’ve got a complex, or
I will have, before long.

I wish it was still summer, so
We could go to the pool;
Instead we go to gym class,
Then our local lunchroom gruel.

The leaves go where they want, while I’m
In math, for heaven’s sake —
But I at least know how to count
The days

Til Christmas


When Toys Were The Subject of My Dreams

(First published April, 2014. – Owen)

When toys were the subject of my dreams
I was a happy child, indeed;
With flying ships and laser beams
My every thought, my drink and feed

Reality soon came to call
And I crestfallen, most of all
With feeling dull reality
That I would no one special be

I had to find the strength I lacked
In all, the self’s more than it seems;
I knew that I could fly from back
When toys were the subject of my dreams

Swingsets (I)

Like a ghost, I wander,
There’s my father sitting on a bench,
My mother talking to
Two other women in their once-bright
Summer dresses,
While my sister, acting cool,
Is lounging on the grass
Out with the big kids
Over by the woods.

Like a spirit, hovering,
I hear the squeaky sounds of kids,
Like sneakers on a gymnasium floor,
My brother and me,
Dressed for swimming,
Swinging ever higher,
Letting go in perfect arcs
Of weightlessness that last
Until we land.

Only with clouds gathering
And wetness in the air solidifying
To we begrudgingly head back to bicycles
And cars, my family walking back
Towards a cinder-block house
My sister furtively looking over her shoulder
At the tall dark-haired boy,
My brother looking up ahead at
The water tower,
And me wondering why
My father and mother never walk


grey drive dream

because of

hands on steering wheel
to roam

it doesn’t matter how
to feel

no home
no lights
just motorcar

and a single luxury -
just hollow

space to wallow

and more dark & truth
than sweet to swallow

empty pillbox

unused pillow
and fresh tears enough
to grow

a downstream