Tabula Rasa

I would be a blank slate,

stripped of memory,

(stripped of you)

my thoughts wiped clean

with a little discernment.

Rid of recollection,

no need to fear

the sticks and stones

that break my bones

break my heart

break my mind;

remembrances that polarize

and become identity

all too soon

(not soon enough)

Perhaps I'll cast my lot with sinners

or selflessly side with angels.

More likely I'll put a posey in my pocket,

clench a clover in my fist,

and hope for the best.

So take me to the river of forgetting.

Build the bonfire high.

Tonight I'll cast remembrance 
to the flames,

and after mark my face

with the ashes that remain.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Paramnesiac

In my heart.

On my mind.

The you I wish you were.

How many years

can fantasies live?

They need special feeding, you know.

Obsessions

Confessions

Expressions

of something

good as gold,

but not as bright;

something

that isn't love.

We crossed a line

(double-crossed)

played the game

at any cost,

ignored the signs

and miners' birds.

They're here to sing, not die.

Our minds are now oceans apart.
(older, hopefully wiser)

The illusions of youth

weren't yours to give

or mine to keep,

and so I did my best
to give them up.

But even after 
the fuss and fury,
the vows broken,
and promises whispered
in empty rooms,
the you I wish you were 

still lives on my heart

and in my mind.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

New Flash Fiction

New Jazz Gang flash fiction: Make a Wish

Saint

Quirky, troublesome saint,

thrust into my life by circumstance.

Edge of madness.

Edge of life.

Existing on a knife blade

where we slip and fall.

All the kings horses and all the kings men.

Cut your wrists.

Cut and run.

Cut your teeth on structure.
Plant hope in shifting sands.

Put everything in its in place:
Order from confusion. 

All the best saints first know pain.

Answer the dreams
of the fortunate few

while searching the soul's pasture
for signals.

Every meandering trail
ends in a dismal spot.

All roads lead to now.

We didn't need a crystal ball

to know where this would end:

(tablets ropes bullets)

They broke your locks

for one last time,

and you rose on the fifth day.

Canonized: perfect at last.

The young get hagiographies.
Mythologies.
Doxologies.

You're an unreliable specialty saint

who will not answer prayers.

But you left some useful memos.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings 2.

Legend

Should I let things stay unspoken

and in silence turn away?

As you say.

As you wish.

Clasp cold fingers

across my lips

and dare me not to speak.

But I invoke your name,
pray to you

in troubled times.
I kneel before your altar
and read your tattered works.
I do as you would do,
but not as you have done.

You would have me
bury your memory,

and scour your footprints clean.

But instead I trace the etchings,

take my knife

and carve them deep.

Unforgettable.

Oh mad genius,

you are legend.

En memoria de VAM, falleció 4 marzo 2014.