I turn the pages of our garbled years;
No easy feat, no simpler way to tears;
The frozen gesture of a brokered clown,
A trapeze act for mindless simpletons.
We carried off the world in a tin bucket.
My old man tuned to another station,
Some old 50’s country song played false:
Of love and other lonely spent victories.
Most of the time he’d stare and stare
Into that ragged blizzard of his soul;
almost empty, a lost cause of love’s old wars,
a despondent eclipse of manhood assured.
Wasting years in abject migrations of despair:
Traveling through bitter twilight zones of penury;
Melded to illusions all his own, he closed the gates
Misery’s iron cage: a way back into whiskey dreams.
Would I follow his kind down that empty hell hole,
Fixed to a losing creed of lucre and self-emolument;
A fragment of such insolvency as this life holds
In the hellish aftermath of dirty and corrupted souls.
Else hold a degree in stupidity and dishonor,
Take a foreign job, have a wife and children,
Bring down the pillars of my house of spite for us,
Like some biblical beast for revenge and envy?
Else hold clever talks with the ancient dead;
As if they, too, in fractured solitude could laugh
Or cry to save the romance of their twisted lives,
Give us one last chance for love until the world dies.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.