They Are Running My Prints
He was our pan, he was our pearl He was our pre-fixer and our path He was our pandemic, he was our praise Now they are running my prints To look for the oils in my skin. The clusters of pebbles in crimson To clear waters are now scarring We scare back to our bacteria grip With a straight wind quarrel The composer even trips Absorb in mentally Absorb in innocence Absorb his narcissus esprit Absorbed in his kill He was a bruise, he was a brick He was a bell witch, he was a bite He was the briar, the broken blade He was bravery, he had that breath Bending in to slay us in his plot. Fingerprints for proof.
Scattered Christmas Garbage
I was sitting alone in a nasty gust of a choking wind,reminiscing on five years since the venom took away my father and left him atrophied, mute, and bent. I wondered if I could ever feel complete like I did before his illness quaking. I’ve been swinging from branch to branch, they are so brittle and this time of year, go from hazel green to a white ashy bone. Scattered on the ground like wrapping paper on Christmas. The leaves are orange, red, yellow, and brown.
Reach under the sink and grab the big black bags. He picks up the paper and everyone laughs. And he doesn’t always hear them, he was always just playing a part. Fathers, Christmas bells, and stones.
And everyone starts chanting out “Songs of Faith, Songs of salvation, Songs of hate, songs of delusions, and songs of materialism and what can you get for me this year with no money and no home”
We go from one tragedy where a disease struck another, and then another and then the bloodline greed gets thicker. And they want the seeds of what he could give them. And he had much less than lint for them to drool over. Yet, they argue, and they steal. They walk up and down the soft hills, and they come out melting like wax and foam.
Then another obstacle. Another payment we can’t make. Bailed out again as we beg to bathe. And we watch the sunrise undress to show us its nocturnal clone. Yet, we still have this, and we still have that. We still have each other until that is challenged by this and that. The greed comes from the most scared cat. And they don’t need it now, but they want it all and don’t even care that we don’t have a home to sit our celebrations inside.
Where is the bloodline, where does it fade in and out. The blood is never fully thickened. It’s pasty, wet, and caked in unraveling crusty dirt. You were one of those 3 that always got the looks, not quite one of theirs and a little unusual. You didn’t celebrate or bring in a blue-collar job to crown your abode. On Christmas mornings you’d just stare off into the distance, hoping that no one was sitting there talking about you or making you feel like a pity show.
Another Christmas comes and another unknown. Every year I’m beginning to feel sicker at the thought of snow. The cheers and laughter are nothing but a cage. And I must continue to pray that there is someone to pray to. So, I can celebrate breaking out of this zoo. And spread over the ground like Christmas garbage looking for another hitch from home to home.
Now, I don’t wish hate and I don’t wish for your blood. I don’t wish for death, and I don’t wish for much. I wish for some compassion and a little trust. I wish you could look in all our eyes without staring back to the ground. And I expected more from humans than to become their forever teenage clown.
Getting out the black bags and pick us up. Place us in there or find some luck. Find some peace through all this hazardous muck. We will begin to shovel our way from tunnel to tunnels under these bridges of stone. And we will make our way there, Christmas will leave the air, and we will be blessed by the exit of leaving the flakes where they lay. It will be yours now and we will look the other way.
A Super Deluxe Poetry Showcase from David L O’Nan (from several books pt 1)
Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.
Fevers of the Mind 