Dining Room Discourse

Come travel the depths of this lonely night

Where knotted roots grope for a morsel

Amid the pale faces of flesh undressed

Whose pathways are smitten with pools of blood

That had once been pumped by a vital heart

Now lay stagnant, solitary tear drops.

“Besides,” she says: head bowing, smile sly,

“My boyfriend would really hurt you if he

Found out I was going to leave him for you.”

And suddenly I am flushed through the vein

Into cavern where the vultures might digest

The grim reality we all might call truth.

Outside I dine in tavern with maiden,

So fair, who no longer wants my love stare?

I do not feign to flee into the night

Through thicket of veins that crunch underfoot.

But might these vine grow grapes and berries sweet

That expose my heartache, a vanity?

There is depth deep in this pit of despair

That is truly called to burrow deeper.

So why bother wet the tip of this plume

With the stain of my x generation?

The lame reader will only scoff and suck

Their precious oxygen beneath oak tree.

From the railroad tracks, cross my father’s lawn

To the dust graffiti of the ghetto

I’ve cast my eyes upon the root’s domain

Where radical cysts strangle the silk day,

With puss from the bottomless hole of greed;

As such past traumas are revisited

With the dawn of a new day eminent.

So much waste at so young an age

Cysts absorb nutrients devoid of love.

But I cast off these internal wanderings

While I stand on my pedestal of mold

In the utter recesses of the night

Dreaming of love, commitment, devotion

Lacking the structure of rhyme and reason.

Dump the rack of mint and pepper season

The sound fades to absorbed desolation.

Dump the thyme and rosemary into dust!

Heed not the reverberations of the weak!

Let us travel to a place far away

Above the walls of my dank existence

To where sun nurtures the high desire

And taunt wildflowers sway in the breeze

Fueling the bud of repressed passion;

And while no blood has bloomed I can still see

The iris of my imagination

Through the green mist of the vegetation

Where fair maiden bathes on a blanket.

Oh might I sit in that silent clearing

Might I hold that curve in her spine to mine,

And taste the pure cocktail of her lips?

If not the thunderous crack of her eyelash

That looks towards the door and speaks her firm, “no!”

I look at her from the depths of this site

Knowing that she will not care about

A scavenger of my variety,

Who starves to death with the proud aesthetic.

She has no idea that within the decay,

The corroded grime of sheer existence,

That nurtures my eternal echoing

Of spiteful spasmodic septic sink holes

That there lies a heart that is open and sincere.