intrusive-author unknown

that last swig of rum at three in the morning
cold and wet like someone else's dog at your back door
it's not barking, not scratching, not whimpering but you know it's there
you feel it
failure at it's best
like at the bar
spewn across the wall
falling off the edge of the earth so that you might forget why you came here
the orchard at dawn
the reservations they made for you
counting change in this bloody tide
i remember as a child chasing chickens around my grandmothers farm
never caught any of them
once i got back from cold nights in the sandbox they were there
there in my dreams
of course symbolic in nature
we did all sorts of things together
they would drive me to the airport
we would exchange mortar fire at all hours of the morning
we would trap and burden each other
they would dance for me and give me ideas to write about till they were emotionally exhausted
i would dig bullets out of his sides in the middle of the night
we would die together
such great times shared
but like all dreams.....i just stopped having them
i can only assume they rest on the outer boundaries of hell...waiting
with intrusive countries between each sheet
golden cold and flu medicine
the need to faulter
no pretense
chatting it up with my father
we both knew you could sit and stare at a camp fire and memorize the pattern of pain in each dancing flame
opaque
sometimes happiness is rooted deep down in misery when your writing and attempting to manipulate the future at hand
writing with honesty.....simplistic and misanthropic
closest to beauty
a fearsome symmetry
worthless in all retrospect like most of this garbage i weave up
this is a sort of fool hearted justice
a sort of reminder that there are places the sun never reaches
desolate and bleak
hellish... yet noteworthy
Divine apathy
sometimes memories are the scabs of hidden wounds in the minds of soldiers
sometimes not