… so drink.

By J. K. McDowell

November 2017

 

The clocks turn back, but no hour of sadness is lost.

Jays screech and morn the oaks gone before the storms.

No restful shade, no escape, shallow breath, sunlight glare.

 

Custom alloy wheels melt in the street, shimmering.

Modern metal cannot endure ancient grievances.

We are burning, send for a shaman or a poet!

 

I wake up.  Now the cracks in the paint are bleeding.

Something is not working; I bought the wrong primer.

Another project gone malignant and awry.

 

Free falling – all night long – I think I love you.

You are Dead at what: 66, 64, 67?

Numbers beyond my father, maybe not me.

 

“Not at an End” – poetic words you once wrote James,

Before blasts and bullets ripped through quiet prayers.

As-Salaam-Alaikum – Wa-Alaikum-Salaam.

 

Whiplash of emotion, yet this is where we thrive.

Tears stream from sugar cane joy to rock salt sadness.

Absinthe green pales to the white of arsenic – so drink.

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