excorpse
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At the table near the coffee counter, hidden behind bags of Komodo Dragon & sun dried Ethiopian, he could hear stories of foxholes in Korea, edged with dirt bags, & watched the girl's weeping willow tattoo spread down her arms & up her neck, feeling
his budding adolescence manifest itself by way of a painful erection, but he couldn't adjust with the delirious fear of being found out and being tragically removed from the miasma of tales swirling above from his father's talented tongue so he
fled to his room, the only place he found comfort.
He could not find the strength
to join in, to be one with his father
like so many sons before him.
Why must he be the youngest, he wondered aloud.
Why must it be I who must . . . hide up here
many stories high-
so far up that
you gotta really
want to go there.
He did whatever he
wanted to do, up there. Far above the crowd,
swinging on a two-by-four,
until he fell asleep.
He may not be dead yet,
but up in those rafters
death waits silently off stage. I remember when Sunday's meant
his visits
and intimacy,
beyond comprehension
of anything, but a physical
nature. Now, Sundays linger too long with yearning.
The loneliness of his absence tears her apart.
If only she could find him.
If only she knew where to look. It is hard, she said.
Yes, very, said his sister.
Well, I must leave immediately, take the next plane to Seattle.
Hallelujah was playing below though she couldn't make out the cover.
Who's singing? she asked.
Billy Joel. Then, what followed was Leonard Cohen.
Not country- but true folk music.
Broken 'hallelujah'. And the tune,
was not so much in the words,
as in his tone. Then out of the white lightning slathered mountain mist came a banjo player with a washtub bassist and a fiddler in tow. They played up a storm, their strange and mournful notes weaving through the frog pond croaking fir dappled night.
A secret chord thrummed in their veins.
He could not find the strength
to join in, to be one with his father
like so many sons before him.
Why must he be the youngest, he wondered aloud.
Why must it be I who must . . . hide up here
many stories high-
so far up that
you gotta really
want to go there.
He did whatever he
wanted to do, up there. Far above the crowd,
swinging on a two-by-four,
until he fell asleep.
He may not be dead yet,
but up in those rafters
death waits silently off stage. I remember when Sunday's meant
his visits
and intimacy,
beyond comprehension
of anything, but a physical
nature. Now, Sundays linger too long with yearning.
The loneliness of his absence tears her apart.
If only she could find him.
If only she knew where to look. It is hard, she said.
Yes, very, said his sister.
Well, I must leave immediately, take the next plane to Seattle.
Hallelujah was playing below though she couldn't make out the cover.
Who's singing? she asked.
Billy Joel. Then, what followed was Leonard Cohen.
Not country- but true folk music.
Broken 'hallelujah'. And the tune,
was not so much in the words,
as in his tone. Then out of the white lightning slathered mountain mist came a banjo player with a washtub bassist and a fiddler in tow. They played up a storm, their strange and mournful notes weaving through the frog pond croaking fir dappled night.
A secret chord thrummed in their veins.
