The Only Hope of Placeholders

He had several ways to leave
And 10 reasons to
But reasons he wasn't sure were the right ones
For right now he spins in circles
And ingests her dark tattoos
And--encircling well-worn mottos--
     he'll stay trapped inside a mode
     with steel teeth
     and iron grip; this boy with broken
legs and looping words

She had several reason to change
And many methods to
Methods she didn't think were convenient.
Convened with her worst tendencies,
She still tends her worsening state.
With a water can of silence
     and a mulch of muffled malice,
     jaw wired in place
     and aligned with sharpened words she goes;
this girl on treadmill tracks

With 20-some-odd years
And--let's say--11 friends
Are you drenched or dry or drowning?
Or perhaps you're safe on shore.
I suspect you can't interpret--
     it's way past way too much
     growing late
     the nights are leading.
     But it's a marathon race...

There were countless rainy days.
And countless more without it.
Still, your pictures are just paint
Until you see them from a distance.
Those insistant strokes are broad--
And they'll persist after you're gone.
     So try to take it easy
     When the scale's a little grey.

Sunday, Crummy Sunday (No Appetite)

You were feeling way too tired
for another tired song about
     another god damn girl
     you met a thousand times before

Absent a seat to meet your feet
with streets so damn familiar
you already taste their gravel

And it's grin to gray sky's purple
Under orange street corner lights
     time again for sore shins
     like a hundred nights before

So lend an ear when ghosts appear
with faces so familiar
you forget even moving

And it's another sopping sad song
on a rain-soaked Sunday night.
You strike the bell by City Hall
And run like Hell
     Tonight
It's maybe just enough
To paint the town in white
     then, when daylight comes
    --with shoulders shrugged--
      regain your appetite.

Some tried to feed you fool's broth
But you choked on the red herring and
     if tired eyes were banknotes,
     then your face would be Berlitz

But even with your spluttering
through wet streets past bars shutting
You think you're onto something
As you cross the 5th Street bridge.

It was another sodden sad song
on a rain-soaked Sunday night.
Turn down that darkened alleyway
And run til day--
It's maybe just enough
To paint the town all grey.
     As daylight comes,
     Your shoulders shrug
     You've got no appetite.

Midnight Snack

The favorite sons and favored daughters
who dwell on Ossuary Hill
each night awake and they are jealous--
     Envy keeps from sleeping well.
Until their locked and fenced-in village
     lets them forth
     night breeze to smell

No caddies line this cul-de-sac
No Lexus, Prius, or SUV.
A different sort of folk inhabit
     this gated community...

These honored folk--elites, I guess--
Feel hunger, too, as well as envy
Now, late at night, they seek a snack
Not pastrami, chips, or chili

An unexpected visit, then,
they'll pay to poor folks down below.
These, deep in sleep, are eas'ly caught
Though the hill folks may be slow

They'll slake their hunger
     --and their envy--
In this way, the shambling squad:
Creeping quiet into the village,
Decayed and claw-clad feet unshod.

The valley folk, so poorly off
Are quiet and simple--a working bunch
Though now and then, they will tell tales
Over coffee, beer, or lunch.

They always have, it seems, resented
     the snobbish wealth-hounds on the hill
And yet, these days, it's gotten worse--
     They live in fear with spines all chilled

For some dark nights, when they wake hungry,
     Somnambulists from up the Hill
Creep into town down in the valley
And make a sleeping, screamless kill...