Fangs

Down the rabbit path— there’s no method to the madness.

It’s too late in the day to look back.

Drops of ink across thin pages and there’s still an itch to scratch.

I’ve got no quick trigger finger— there’s a slump to the seat at the red light. Finding nothing outside the grease smeared lens.

No intention beyond baring your fangs.

Rolled tobacco and watched the smoke flow over my fingers and into the air.

Lifted hands and a pauper’s purse of answers.

Infinite questions as the spilt milk sky glittered overhead.

Incense Moon

Quiet like cursive. Starry eyelids. Autumn nights where the moon blows incense.

Back from wandering like an arctic vessel charging through sheets of fogs.

Pockets of breath are captured above the planks of Theseus.

Splayed across the kitchen floor— double time beat of an over-wound heart.

Powder keg hope— black dreams and blood borne patience

Bruised like an orchard apple

Shed skin and skip steps like the King of Crows as he pecks at the street.

Street Symphony

There's a thousand crows Circling the park blocks. Men With Polka dot shirts try to Chase them off the bocce ball courts.

Rancid cardboard boxes decay on the corners like brown snowmen.

The lambent orange lamps flicker a Morse code only the shy, curious eyes of bespectacled kids left on the side of the clay courts can decipher.

As dusk drops its cape over the horizon, the neon undercarriage lights of the backyard modded street racers illuminate the streets.

Long swaths of cement carry ground rubber in its crevices as the burnouts and races compared closer to timed portraiture than illegal activity.

The lonesome rattle of half-empty bottles is the undertone of the street symphony.

Tentacles and Temper Tantrums

There were tentacles descending from the overhead light. Anthony didn’t need a second look to know he needed to get out of there.

I wanted you back. Ungrateful and true, completely in view, I could see the ends of the tarmac as it disappeared into the ocean. No blankets of safety were being handed out as the egines whined like turbo sized dogs at dinnertime.

The pressure spiked in the cabin. Carbonated beverages exploded like holiday fireworks, drenching passengers in complimentary dismay. The thin crackle of the PA told them to stay calm. No tin voice could keep the collective panic from swelling as the sea erupted.

\\\

“I know I’m alone if I’m with or without you,” she said with a long exhale of a clove cigarette.

///

The one that crawled out of the briar mists hasn’t been found yet. Across the moor, the heavy steps of tired boots and anxious hounds mixed the soft mud into a tapestry of desperation.

X-Ray

“You can’t ask for cigarettes if you think you’re actually having a heart attack.”

A disgruntled security to an older man in a worn yellow rain jacket and a deep purple shiner under his left eye.

I’d wonder if I’d want a cigarette if I was actually having a heart attack.

I doubt I’d be asking two men, one with crutches and knee brace, in a jolly tone, for a smoke if my heart started doing the bachata.

Painted Acorns

“There wasn’t even time for the shallows of sleep.”

Many nights that have blended into one. The pinprick of stars cast silver strands down onto the city.

The sewer grates stuffed with leaves from a long past autumn forced the rain to pool in the streets. The incandescent bulbs lit the dark surfaces like distant planets bobbing above a cosmic lake.

Small scratches of a pen and the occasional sigh of relief. The numbers were adding up for Konstantin, but not much else was.

Twenty-six years old and thin to the point of dissent, he wasn’t far past the grim predictions his grandmother made when he stepped onto the continental train. He rolled the paint speckled acorn she pressed into his hand. Her last words an oath rather than a farewell.

“Nothing strong grows without deep roots.”

—————————————————————

The parade spilled confetti over the boulevard and idle men sifted through the torn paper for lost coins and candy. The kids and families had already retired once the colonel proclaimed another great advancement on the southern front. The clapping was mechanical— a slow screech like the steel brakes made in the factories on the edge of town.

Fortune found through misfortune. A hole in a jacket pocket gracing small notes an escape from one clenched fist to another. Thin soup and hard bread a grim reward for sharp eyes.

—————————————————————

Twenty-eight and feeling as dull as the worn razor in his wash basin. The patchy beard and smudged spectacles didn’t distract from the hollowed cheeks of Konstantin.

Cursing his namesake— or that of the sixteenth Constantine that was doomed by prophecy and ensured by Ottomans. He’d never taken to his name, but remained weary of Mehmet’s.

The books were growing wider— the marks more frantic as the pen struggled to connect irregularities. The path of his own life would soon stop mirroring the railroad and become akin to the wagon ruts of home.

—————————————————————-

Farrago Opening

There’s a million words that have gone unpolished.

I’m sitting post- darts listening to a slowdive song as I reflect on the upcoming year.

I’ll be going to grad school. Each week I’m private training, coaching, and substitute teaching. I’m trying to find the time to walk through the southeast neighborhoods with my mom as we navigate her diagnosis.

I have a group of friends that I wouldn’t have known before going to Japan.

There’s a beauty to things ending.

Otherwise there’s never space for change.