Life, you’ve killed off the faces of my childhood. The old man who, with shaky hands outstretched reached over formica countertops to place peppermint sticks and butterscotch rounds in my tiny hands, was shot to death ten years ago.
I hope the money set well in their pockets. .45 stole a hundred dollars, seventy years, a husband; put a hole in the fruit-stand wall and left a bullet wound in my toddling soul, because a child cannot understand why there are no more peppermints.
And a week ago life laid to rest the man who made me consider my last name. who, every Saturday with the thickest of accents carried me across the atlantic to the ruins of Augsburg, the hills of Garmisch, the streets of Munich, with but a bite of Brochen.
Who, hands coated in flour, would sculpt for strangers intricate strudels, from water and rye, and delicately slip such treasures into plain paper bags.
And I, ten years later Cannot understand Why there is no more bread.
burn, pale white paper. women will write poetry from your ashes and men bathe in the brevity of your smoke, while the rain spends its day disappearing into thirsty rivers, and falling into heavy puddles. a hundred thousand misplaced droplets that cascade down the broken stone and carry away the embers shared between two lips.
Once for an assignment, the teacher asked us to pen our idea of hell. General notions of sulfur and fire abounded, save my dear friend who described it simply as “jelly donuts: without the jelly.” While I realize that within the scope of her humor, she probably meant little by it, thinking back I cannot help but muse over the truth in such a trivial statement- a loose analogy to the fact that hell is, at base, the deceitfully empty promise of something which one would commonly expect. One sees the donut, and from its basic form deduces it is jelly filled, but upon the first hopeful bite, discovers he has been duped. Often, described all too wrongly as brimstone and flames, true hell is a crisp something sound system that continuously plays Hillsong (all day…all day now…all day.) Hell is a large 3-D movie screen that shows nothing but Joel Osten sermons. Hell is a beautiful mahogany library stocked with nothing but Rick Warren books. That is, hell is the expectation of enlightening literature deflated by the reality of a moralistic 12 step program that will enable you to quit whichever vice is most ailing you (in truth, this vice probably isn’t bothering you at all, but as quietly declared by the prevailing ideology, damn well should.) As such, hell is also summarily definable as the purest form of torture: pancakes, with no syrup.
Overgrown emerald fescue intertwined with golden patches of grass cradle my bare feet, while I sit on worn boards as the wind and your fingers tousle my hair. And I cannot decide which soothes me more.
Pale light from heaven filters through the clouds and kisses my shoulder, where your lips rested only hours earlier. And I cannot decide which warmed me more