Avalanche Fiction

I never imagined I’d
see something so
tragic in beauty, that
my paternal duty could be so
badly compromised.

I knew it would be grueling and sleepless,
there would be inevitable cruelty
but Jesus, I’m
unspooling like yarn and
burning split ends hanging from either end,
convinced I was ten steps ahead of everything else

(ultimately fooling no one but myself.)

All I wanted was
to be your hero but now I fear
I got lunacy for a cellmate.

There was never a version of me a pencil could not save, a hand my stanzas could not persuade. Blinking meant I could recuperate, and when I opened my eyes, twelve months would not be gone to waste.

Papier mache pride
went my head, blurring
lines for
some asinine cause.

I have verses and a way with words, but
what’s it worth, huh?
What has it ever done for me, love?

I’m not a writer or a poet, nor an artist but a locust, feeding on narrow-minded focus that bloated until the gas ballooned, sucked the shit air from every room we spent days together,

face buried
in my sweater,
trying to rhyme gluten with
grooms and brides
with their gloom

floral arrangements with
a destiny
not meant to bloom

in consistently
congruent patterns while you
played in

a corner alone.

Before this sickness overtakes me, suffocating, eventually breaking me of a drive to escape these
darkest thoughts alive;

before I’m
designated your
traitor as
my father
was mine;

before I become
defined by tomes
I leave behind,
byproducts of
a mind that could not
spot a story in
the sky God put there for me

to read between the lines,

I’ll spare you the excuses I know from experience results in nothing but bruises. Baby, I’m lucid even if I can’t get sober, your protector despite the fact I’m the boulder triggering your alpine frictions.

Avalanche fiction can
take the world’s
best diction, and turn its
smallest stones
to landslides.

Advertisements

4 thoughts on “Avalanche Fiction

  1. the casualties of a passion? I guess that’s why so many devotees flee, avoiding any possible competing cause or passion, but don’t fall for it, beauty (an inadequate term) is born of the tension between them, as this piece attests

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s