Old Hurts

deviant art by hasimo


Old Hurts

This odyssey of ancient fallen Jerichos.
Your walls like a row of Dominos.
If I tap one and force this drive
into abyss, will it infect all thorns
you've pacified,
bring black lava up again?
Twist a jagged blade in thighs.
I imagine a trip through fields of corn,
cities swelling in their soot.
To meet scorched dream half-way.
Giving acid, rancid tears
a better, proper burial.
Games are smarter than our souls.
Ending them is easier than
writing all the rules again.
Cards and pawns, shining their swords
on bishops of death. Sitting as
all children do on pinched raw nerve,
assuming age has better hands
to strut in rained parades of time.

Ishmael returning now to face
and bind these ring-less folders
of mistakes;
old hurts like whores to pay and jump.
Our pounding tires,
paddles at a mortal auction,
raising hands in gesturing:
"I lived a gutsy horoscope.
There are no other ways to sing."
Agony's portfolio
was rubber-banded all these years.
I worry that its leather cover,
all its cracks, will start to bleed.
But you have holey jeans to patch,
burning belts to put away.
Miles will be a bar of soap;
love will grow another inch.
I will help you wash your back,
whipped by couldn't(s) of this world.
A cleaner moon will guide us home.

Janet I. Buck

Posted over on Ariga