Desperate Men

CHARLOTTESVILLE

Desperate men cry “blood and soil!”
Slouching forward, torches in hand,
Desperate men cry “blood and soil!”
As though this truly is their land.

Desperate men cling to ages dark,
Their hands grasping at the air.
Desperate men are not noble
And they act from basic fear.

Desperate men are by freedom threatened,
By others’ existence, they feel confined.
Desperate men: cut from the same cloth
That renders Justice blind.

 

My Sinuses Want to Kill Me

My sinuses want to kill me

(no, I’m not being melodramatic).

They’ve sent yellow tentacles

onward, upward,

toward the top of my head.

These tendrils wrap, encase,

constrict my skull

and force each thought

into a odd shape.

The tendrils creep onward, upward,

toward the top of my head,

between each volley of Sudafed

and I wait for reprieve

(no, I’m not being melodramatic).

Just me and my odd-shaped thoughts.

 

 

Walking in Winter, Part 3.

Don’t lie down,

the cold isn’t done with you

(not yet).

You will have to carry it,

even as the sun finds a way

through the sheets of white and grey.

You will have to carry it

after it slowly slithers,

in, out,

and through each layer.

Before you lie down,

remember that the cold isn’t done with you

(not yet).

It waits

under your blanket,

it waits

under your skin,

It’s by your bedside,

waiting,

for morning to begin.