Blood-soaked visages and fetid rags fill the space before my eyes. You would have me believe that it’s all according to plan? The blunt-force trauma, the brain damage, the bleeding belly-wound that signals a final turn into the worst possible outcomes… How do you justify it all? How does it sit with you? In rusted manacles and filthy, putrid trousers sits the man, the woman, the Geist. Hardened hearts bely broken minds and haggard breaths, the death throes of a bygone era. Will the builders and the founders save us from staggering one-legged into the apocalypse? I shall await forever those things promised to me in my youth. We’ve all the time in the world.
An American Dream, Almost Forgotten
Lying there
staring out the window
look at things you cannot see.
Those little pictures in your head
reflected in the eyes atop your face.
Not broken,
but whole.
Down below
in streets unclean
where windows break
and saxophones wake
perhaps the eyes atop your face
would find themselves adrift
in one foreign little place.
I only wish,
come hell or high water,
that there upon that street
will your eyes not come to rest
for I wish a different future,
with a fair sight fewer sutures.
Fly, fly, fly
little bird.
It’s time to fly away
right on out the window.
The world awaits
your tired little eyes.
Poems by Sam 