My Brother (Lays Dead Under the Hickory Tree)
There he is I see him under pelts of hailstones A riddled mind and diseased by doctors the icy rain pulsing little cuts All over and over again. I'm still in a quiet thought We always felt the ending. Or at least I have seen this ending. In nightmares every night The men festive from the jail. Mother, a stereotype. Needing an exorcism. There he is My brother, a little hushed baby of 25. Shoes as split as a peeled banana. His coloring of blue, like the river nearby. Like the breeze that blows through his long haired, daredevil boy. He was hideous in his battle Popping firework amphetamine pills, dragons watch the alleys. The abusive and abused in corners and in jars. Oh, lonesome traveler a blood kissed jewel. Some crows sing in their broken voices, they sit atop the bells. They fly in the air, they congregate in the tree above. The sick hickory I watch with no blink as they rescue him from the cold ground. For only a few long hours and then they just return him back to give him a comfortable dirty sack. Underground, where they'll whisper out your sins to each other. We can't escape the gossip. Gossip clumsily falls like a slinky missing a step along the way. The steps that are missed however, are remembered for coming up with the best stories. Your best demise. Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.