"The Dragonfly"

Late beside a stretching trail, west to east with leaden feet.
An empty bench waiting beneath an ancient oak tree,
aching out for my bones to creak over and sit.
'Here', I felt, but what better place to fit?
Waiting there alone, but not the least bit in silence.
Accompanied by the droning duet of memories and insects,
soothing me as best they could from the fiendish things I think.
But who am I to demand the creatures that creepeth sing in sync?
Sawing and hacking, their chorus kept on still.
Vibrating wings and skeletal legs beating violently against my spinal chill.
A million eyes upon me, but lo, not one could see
the hammering in my soul drowning out their song for me.
"No use.", I told the noise. "My thoughts are much too loud."
Too thick the fog would take it's place; caressed without a sound.
Too small, my hope, still droning out with mechanical whim;
too small to find them and catch a wisp of their crawling kin.
A moment I sat without speaking. Their source I sought to find,
and all at once in driven chorus their hum was lost behind
the Autumn breeze and static peace, a second I thought I felt
a wrinkle in time of warmth for the frost to finally melt.
Twas in this instance, passing through the eye encompassing my seat,
a great whirlwind began to stir; a thunderless sky began to beat.
The oaken giant above, strong, old, and holding firm
swayed and bent and cracked among the violence of the storm.
Shaken with fear, I fell upon my knees to pray:
"Mercy, oh Most High above!", reaching out to not blow away.
"I beg thee, calm these wicked winds that sail across my skin!
Halt the flooding flashes that barrage me for my sin!"
My eyes ascending toward the late night sky,
a great black shape, in flight, flashed by.
Like lightning, encircling both Heavens and Earth,
an Odonata of God beneath the world was given birth.
At once, the storm surrendered both wrath and understanding.
The twisting and howling was his, and from his flight he made landing.
In silver moon streaks, his metallic armor gleamed 
on mighty bulks of smoothen emeralds. Impenetrable it seemed.
His transparent wings outstretched, and through them one could see
the same world cloaked in blackness my life had come to be.
A ruby glare ensnared me. His ommatidia, an iridescent flame.
Despite the countless lives before, not even time could grasp his name.
His countenance stern, and like a statue his legs stood form.
His body, like a hewn tree, but not a lick of flame could burn.
Woe beneath his shadow, beneath his mighty form of horror,
there was naught unseen to this champion of explorers.
Like a coward I did witness, and my spirit seek to flee,
yet motionless he sat still in his dead storm's breeze.
Zipped shut without a stitch, a silent ghost before him shivered.
And in great spectacle he spoke, dry and soft like a whisper.
'Round about me full his voice did come.
"Twas thee, mortal man, felt the taste of the sun?"
Astonished. Frozen. I could not reply.
and though I could not speak, before him I could not lie.
"Tis black as pitch.", he sighed. His words a miserable note.
"Know not the sun shall fade?; that moment of heat be smote."
The spark of life before the storm, after his kind did halt
their complimentary moaning for the misery I had felt.
From whence it came, I knew not,
but with a touch of courage I spoke up.
"The warmth was a moment I had not felt in so long.
like an ember distant from it's fire,  burning to belong."
"Belonging to what?", asked he. "This cursed course of time?;
bound to it, I watched thee, and not a grain of it had rhyme."
"One as old as thee", said I, "surely hath kissed the sun?"
and at this his black glass wing beat, and his kin began to hum.
But not a song they sang, and in pain they droned long.
Dying down in silence for their King to speak on.
"Grand illusions it is thou seek? Kissed by moments
that snare the heart like winter when the Earth is dormant."
For a moment I pondered. Fumbling for my words.
What could I possibly say He has not already heard?
For a time, like a fool, twas I like an insect that stood
at the mercy of a giant, scared to flee, though I should.
My pause, i broke. "Like the trees, a sea of green beneath your wings
and the dripping petals of wildflowers quietly growing in spring;
reaching high, they too rise for the sun and glow.
Receding through the night, but in the morning they show
vibrant with joy from the war for the warmth.
Cheering in success at another day's birth."
Malicious, he grumbled. "Wise man then tell me why
it is life you place upon the flowers, and not their own choice to die?"
"The flowers choose not.", said i. "By chance they fall or bloom."
"Bold words from thee." said he. "As it was you out here alone."
"But not by the choice of my own!", I snapped, and at the notion bit my tongue.
He said, "No more free than the flowers beneath a fading and running sun.
Mortal man, thou be courageous in what he seek;
happiness in a world so cruel and bleak.
Try as you may, but with scars flaring to remind thee,
none, but misery, thou shall find as company."
His words were thick with a darkness, ancient and true,
and just a touch upon the mind could blot the sun from clear view.
Perhaps he was right, and all my screaming for the day
was trivial in its fight, as all I loved was taken away.
"Senseless", he continued, "all thy wants and needs,
when even the unconscious dream rots beneath
the great weight of Gaias girth
decaying even the beauty of birth."
A layer of his words, with quick enchanting, ceased the scene.
That great oak, once standing, torn asunder at its seems.
The low grass driven far beyond where the sun rose and set,
now scorched to their roots with no sign of coming back.
The stars had all fallen, or perhaps sunk from sight;
fearful of his sulking and the sorrow of his might.
My last vestiges of strength, now fallen and smashed.
Overcome by his words, and his word's world shaped at last.
"How miserable.", I sobbed. What little warmth I had erased
and in megalithic weight the Odonata's words replaced
the speck of light, dearly, I had held so very tight,
like ashes to ashes, it's dust was taken in the night.
"How long?", I asked, "How long must this vision last?"
and before his response, he scoffed, "Ye know the answer to that.
The air may fill thy lungs, and thy heart pump it's blood,
but in the end all equalizes among the worms and dirt and mud.
Mortal man, be not brass. Be not stubborn against this world.
All things come to pass away, and into the darkness the spirit hurled."
"How then," I began, "Do I find the spark to thrive;
before, the slightest scent, was all but needed to contrive
the fuel to hold back the sadness; the bombarding at my door,
and shield my love from danger and return to her once more."
"Long gone.", his voice lumbering out, "That hope has since passed.
How then shall thee awaken to a day ever made with glass?
Thy strength ye molded in another, an illusion for such fools.
Be it man or woman or time: thy blades dull and become crude. 
Bluntly crushing each and every heart seeking to expose
the lie of sprouting happiness, aching beneath thy chestbone."
His wings, like portals spread agape against the sky,
only to be witnessed by the lack of stars they provide.
Deep into the nothing I peered.
Spiraling endlessly across no measure. Thrust in like a spear.
Lost (if you could say) in a domain of no direction,
surrounded by nothing, and everything, I hate in my reflection.
Outside looking in, Apathy's embrace appeared so welcoming.
Soothing concern with carelessness, and desperately, I called back to her beckoning.
Blissful, one might think, to stretch inside the Dragonfly's wings,
to commune with one so trodden, and set aside such beautiful things.
Never again to see my heart stricken with a blow, 
and yet never again to feel, or so much as find the love I sought to know.
Woe to you, what friends I leave behind,
whom seek curiously to know, and foolishly dip their toes to find
Purgatory is a lie: a shade of grey to sell.
Soon you'll sell it all, and with lifted eyes find yourself here too: here with me in Hell.



"The Spider"

I felt my spirit burning and my soul begin to twist
from the glimpse of life's cold heart. Early I did resist.
Bitter bitten nails, which chewed them though I did,
still clawed inside to peer about a life I couldn't live.
Forsaken, I would find the nerve to squeeze between the pain.
To force myself among a world apathetic to my name.
'What a shame.' some would say, but perhaps I am to blame;
for I always chose to fight for treasure I knew I'd never gain.
It is what it is, and I think, therefore I am
sick of all these kindred hands building a world God damned.
The bitten bullet swallowed. The spear that gores the lamb.
The floods that find your family deeply soaked into the land.
Evaporated quickly, and in haste they all withdraw,
and I curse them all to shadows from within my cave's maw.
Bested. I was beaten. Singed, my feathers fall.
Forgotten by a cruel world I should have ended once and for all.
Afterall, through me, everlasting torment I did wish;
and sought out each and every reflection (not to see) but lo, to spit. 
Upon the mirror's truth, a buried rage I must admit
to tear open my chest agape, and remove my heart from it.
"Havoc!", they cried, and havoc now I seek.
A conundrum of the mind when peace and love release
their grip, a weak breeze, sailing fraily through the leaves.
Broken down by arms of bark, that grit and bear their teeth.

Lowly, I sat, and ground my teeth from broken trust
like eroded valleys gutted and over time reduced to dust.
On and on and on I walked, never halting, though I must.
Beyond profundity of the ocean, the Earth, and all its crust,
I found no place among it; no place to lay my head,
no place to rest my weary soul, no place for me to bed.
No place for me was granted, and all doors locked instead,
to keep me shut from hopeful dreams with good wishes till I was dead.
But on I sought for comfort in a place I don't belong,
when all about me suddenly, a most beautifully radiant song.
On and on and on it rang like angelic bells get along.
Drawing me ever deeper into this place I don't belong.
None I have found out here not stricken; least of all willing to sing.
Yet, on the voice cried, enduring reprised, surely for someone to bring
a presence long forgotten in a place long needed for dying.
Curiously I stuttered towards this one last beautiful thing.
Closer I had come. From a woman it made it's course.
And where once I heard a pretty bird, now stammered with remorse.
For once I sulked with company, another could be first,
to grant me now a purpose, and gift me happiness for her.
Around me, a forest, who's density still yet grew,
and soon I found myself engulfed in barren branches dew. 
Besieged by thorns so sharp, and pity yet so few,
I found the will to struggle through and seek that voice anew.

"Please.", ever so softly, droning out with fright,
"I hear you! I hear you!", please step out into the light.
Your song, a brook so tender to chase away the moon and night.
Tender like two doves forever together in flight.
"No. Please come forward. I sing not here for free,
but the cost is so little. A little closer and you'll see."
More thorns to suffer. More shade and shadows for me,
but surely sacrifice pays a cost negate of any fee.
Scarcely receding, giving little room for me to stretch,
the trees somewhat stepped aside, like cringing at a wretch.
Beyond their line an open mouth upon the hillside etched,
and a gust of air foreboding, blowing out a terrible stench.
"Here, oh noble man. Save me from this wicked place.
I'm trapped within these webs and my innocence defaced.
Please, come closer. Upon your shoulders my pain erased.
You can surely cut me free from spinnerets long traced."
Foolishly, I stepped inside the last hell I'd ever want.
Before me, no slender beauty, but a spider in dreams that haunt
each and every waking dream, and my psyche left to taunt
what was or what could be, before me here to flaunt.
Drawn in by the beauty (the lie) that life beholds,
now I suffer could-have-beens in apathetic mold.
Trapped now forever with no spark left in my soul,
I cry and laugh and weep in ash for a spider I wanted to hold.

What It Profits a Man
Today I didn't go to Sunday School
but to the cemetery above and
behind it and hung out on my father's
headstone, not that he's dead yet but when he
is then he'll be all set and death won't have
to wait any longer than it has to
which was awfully nice of Father but
then he's a nice guy, he's a plumber,
they don't come any nicer even though
some folks complain about the high bills but
he just smiles and shrugs and says that he's as
fair as it's possible for him to be
and still make the least little profit and

that usually does the trick, Mother's
headstone they're still saving for but it looks
good for them in the afterlife and lead
-ing up to it and all the time that comes
after it, eternity it's called, one
day I'll die, too, and meet up with them but
I'm only ten years old now and I want
to live a while longer, I'll be ready
after my team wins the World Series and
the way things are going that won't be soon
so I guess when I'm croaked and wake up dead

I won't worry too much about how much
life I missed, it'll all be behind me
and I won't get to go back and after
Sunday School last week I told Miss Hooker
that sometimes I think about just killing
myself and saving God and Jesus and
the mortician and for that matter both
Mother and Father some time and worry
but she told me not even to think it,
that's a sin as sure as really doing
it and that whenever I think such thoughts
that I should pray for forgiveness right off
the bat and not delay for a moment

else I might die right then and here in sin
and find myself in the furnace of Hell
and then I asked her what I thought Father
would ask, Would that be gas or electric,
and then she laughed and laughed and it was good
to see and hear and when I got home I
asked Father what would be Miss Hooker's fate
​if she dropped down dead at that moment of
sin--would her immortal soul head up or
down and he said I'm not sure, son--let us
pray, then he smiled and closed his eyes and fell
asleep. That son of a bitch is crazy.


Burned
After Sunday School I slink back in
the classroom to see Miss Hooker one more
time before I never see her again
until next Sunday. Could be her red hair
draws me back to her fire again. I'm just
10 and I don't know why I feel this way
but I like it even though I hate it.
I mean, she's a grown woman and I'm not

a man yet but one day I will be and
be a husband to boot and get married
and start a family, which means babies,
and though I don't know where they come from yet
I'd like to learn and Miss Hooker's a swell
teacher and I'm a decent student if
I'm interested. And she has green eyes,
one of them lazy, wandering like God,

if God wanders--I sure would if I was
God. I'd get pretty bored up in Heaven
just sitting on my throne all day. Maybe
that's just me, whether I was made in God's
image or not--I think that's the Bible.
And freckles, she's got freckles, Miss Hooker
has about a million freckles. Sometimes
I try to count them but have to give up,
it's like counting stars and of course there are
the ones you never see, far away or
behind the clouds like Miss Hooker's freckles

underneath her clothes. If we get married
I could count them on our honeymoon if
there's enough light in the dark. I suppose
that my eyes will adjust, or maybe they'll
shine like real stars, even twinkle-twinkle,
to make my summing easier. I'll use
a calculator to keep track of them.
And I'll hold her close and kiss her and then
we'll fall asleep and wake up pregnant, or

she will, and nine months later name our son
after me or our daughter after her,
but for now I don't know Miss Hooker's name,
her given name, I mean. Her Christian name.
I guess I'll find out at the latest when
we get married. She'll wear a long white gown
sort of open at the neck to show off

her chests, or the tops of them, and I'll wear
a tuxedo, which I'll rent and take back,
or my best man will, whoever he'll be.
Right now it's a tie between my father
and my dog. I stand in the doorway and

watch Miss Hooker stack the hymnals, and think
of stacking dishes in the kitchen sink.
I should help her, or at least help her dry them.
I think I've seen enough. Maybe I've seen
too much. Now I'm feeling like her red hair
made me feel. I'm sort of looking forward
to, and dreading, something at the same time.
It's like thinking of Jesus, too, Who died
on the Cross, Miss Hooker says, to save us.
All I can say is I'm glad that He did
but sorry that He had to all the same.
Maybe if I die to save Miss Hooker
she'll fall in love with me. But that's too late.


Buttocks
I don’t want to die but I may as well
is how I look at it, death I mean, death
is the end of life or at least of mine
no matter when it comes, I’m only 10
now and my Sunday School teacher tells us
that God can call us back at any time,
call us back to Him, that is, He has such
power, nobody gave it to him, He’s
always had it, the power to call us
back to Heaven where, I think, He made us
and then shipped us out, our souls I mean, in
-side our bodies and between them and out
mothers’ labors, that’s the mysterious
part, the in-between-ness of it all--well,
I forgot what I was trying to say
and yet I believe every word and yet
I never even knew it, the start, save
I went through it myself but I’m damned if
I remember what it was like. I told
Miss Hooker so after Sunday School this
morning, she’s our teacher, and that damned slipped
out, another sin and a heinous one
because I said it in church, Sunday School
is a kind of church, an affiliate,
like the local NBC station to
the larger network, I like TV and
we don’t have cable, cable’s a sin says
Mother but I think she just means the cost
but anyway that slipped out of me
and so Miss Hooker had to sit down right
on both hips I mean, buttocks I think they’re
called, that’s a funny word and like I say
she plopped smack down on both at once and made
that sound like an inside-the-armpit poot,
another sin I guess, but I helped her
up again, no damage done that I could
see though of course I couldn’t see much nor
to the chair, neither, it’s that tough plastic
that will never rot in a million years
and if you try to torch it it likely
only melts, but anyway after she
got her legs back, so to speak, Miss Hooker
told me to run on home, she knows I walk
and yet that wasn’t a figure of speech,
she wanted me the Hell out of her hair
so I said, Yes ma’am--see you next Sunday
​
but she just grunted, I guess I hurt her
after all but if we ever get hitched,
forget her age, which is 25, we’ll
both grow into husband and wife if
only for a few years, there’s free cable
down at the County Motel, just perfect
for our honeymoon, unless I’m dead first
or otherwise bored. And remote control.

Self-Driven

...... 1.
I’ve owned five vehicles at different times of my life, all trusted companions. The first was a cough syrup green 1971 Toyota Corolla, but for me, it was verdant, a two-door standard sedan, four-speed manual with a radio and a large trunk. I adjusted the seats and viewed the world through a clear windshield.

As the story goes, my parents had left me a few thousand. I walked into a Toyota and talked to a salesman. Now I had to drive back to my apartment by crossing the Whitestone Bridge, but had only driven a few times before then, including the test to get my license. Somehow, I managed. Shortly afterward, I packed up my things and drove across the United States. The Corolla took me to Pennsylvania down to Cape Hatteras, through Appalachia and into Atlanta, Hannibal, Gunnison, Four Corners, the Rockies, and Las Vegas, almost like I was inside Woody Guthrie's head. I drove my two-door years more until the floor in the back seat rusted out. The car registered 200,000 plus miles on the speedometer. My neighbor bought it for $200 and crashed it several months later. I thought she deserved better.

...... 2.
I know, I know. She was just a car, but we’d spent so much time together. Newer cars had automatic windows, not handles that you had to roll up and down like a store awning, automatic shifts, and cassette decks. My old car was no longer. Buying a new one was out of the question. I scanned Craigslist and located a cheap Honda Civic Wagon four-door automatic with low miles, not green, but a sparkling cobalt blue. I made an appointment and eyed the owner suspiciously, strolled around the car to ascertain if the doors wouldfall off the moment I pressed the gas pedal. The man read my look. “The car’s in good shape,” he said, and handed me the keys for a test run. I got inside, the car was beautifully clean, not a fingerprint on the steering wheel, not a speck of ash in the cup holder. It drove without a hiccup and sailed like a blue flag. I handed the man my envelope. So began the blue Honda period of my life.

......3.
I’ve owned three other cars since then, all sedans, pre-owned, or as we used to say, “used,” four-door automatics with low mileage, hunted down on Craigslist, car lots, or dealerships with their guarantees of free maintenance. All cars were in it for the long haul. A few had names. One of them was Lucinda named after Lucinda Williams, a black beauty that I’d bought in the South where I visited Louisiana bayous and ancient Indian mounds before driving back to California. Within miles of home, smoke rose from either side of the hood in nasty-looking wisps that exploded into flame. I exited the highway. Workers in a machine shop opened the hood and used a fire extinguisher; my mechanic did the rest and got her running. I became protective, kept dirty tissues on her front seat to discourage a growing tide of break-ins thinking that people don’t like to wade past germs. I believed that cars are imbued withresonant life: if we take care of them, they do the same. Now I’m hearing about self-driven cars powered by robots. That would change everything: I want to have a peer relationship with whatever is driving me forward.



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