Tupelo Street

It was the last house on Tupelo Street,

and the blood-red sun dripped upon

that gleaming white picket fence surrounding the yard,

looking just like jagged teeth...


A most curious fellow stood by watching passers-by,

as they made the most of the late summer day,

some waved as they went on their way - others ignored him completely

still unaware of the odd twinkle in his eyes,

like the first star you see at twilight...


His elbows rested, callously

upon that fence...

spindly hands and fingers - streaked with the green

and brown from digging in the dirt - were all tangled,

like a crown of thorns...


He looked straight through me,

with a stone-faced stare that would have frozen

a lake of fire,

soon I felt those sickly eyes,

trace the edges of yard, and back again

as if surveying a new kingdom...


I lay awake that night, till but a few hours

before rosy dawn, wondering and wondering again...

deep and dark were the waters of doubt,

but the alchemy of anxious curiosity drove me instead...

...into the back yard of that unusual fellow...


With no silver moonlight to tread on,

I met my destiny at last -

following the sounds of what seemed like

an old man snoring, but it was not like a breath -

no, it was a rhythmic, a swaying sound -

a sawing sound now...curious still, but now,

now, now the fear beat about my brow,

sweat streaming, colder than a witches tit...

I stumbled in at last!

With my breathing fresh and fast,

my heart froze at the sight before me;

gnashing teeth, and ashen limbs

looking much like those gleaming white picket fences

earlier this afternoon, the old man was not snoring,

but sawing away gleefully!

The faces of the fallen lay all about,

and I fell too...

another addition to the garden...


When you see the Spring roses bloom,

lush in red and orange, and spotted white petals

entwined in the tendrils of morning glory,

wrapped about old tree trunks...

 you'll see me too, from time to time

just behind that old house -

on Tupelo Street.

Picnic at a Funeral

Truly the nascent flowers play,

upon the treads...the narrow grooves of imagination ,

scattered on the supple winds,

in colors, reminiscent of banners swirling in the breeze...

It's quite sunny now, a heavy warmth felt on the tops of weary heads,

maybe noon...

the procession tramples on, over cobble reminders...

not yet broken in two, the eye's have it -

yes, we're all dressed in that blank canvas...

all faces in union, remembered to the blue skies,

tears down an alpine nose...

I place a flower upon the years I've been alive,

and the the rest in the grave...

Let's just rest by this stone,

a bottle of wine and wheel of cheese,

celebrate the divinity of our being...

because you don't really know when it's all for keeps.