Poetry: The Kid

Happy 85th birthday, Cormac McCarthy. 85 years. What a genius.

The video here is me reading my poem, “The Kid,” inspired by his novel Blood Meridian. One of my favorite horror stories of all time, although it usually isn’t classified as horror. To me, it certainly is. What else would you call a novel about a gang of ex-Army scalp hunters gone rogue during the Mexican-American War?

It is my belief that poetry should be heard, not read, and while mine isn’t that good, it’s a form of writing I’m constantly trying to practice and improve. Take a listen and let me know what you think in the comments.

Poetry: The Barghest’s Revenge

I.

The Barghest rose from stirring gloom
Through creeping shadows of my room
The dangling keys about his wrists
Like tiny bells foretelling doom.

O’er to my bed he slithered, black
His skin mottled like mordant wax
All tufts of hair in ancient cysts
Sprouting from nose, toes, ears, and back.

With a voice smooth as mercury
Thus he whispered, musically
“Find you the door that matches this,”
And in his hand offered a key.

The toothed, black spindle in his palm
Was twisted, sharp, nine inches long.
Heavy as ages in my grip,
It filled my ears with eldritch song.

“Go you to Edinburgh, my dear,”
The monster said into my ear
“In Robert’s Close, when moonlight-kiss’d
By his name, you must dig near.”

“There you will find a secret trove
Buried ‘neath the roots and bones
With this key I to you inflict
The chance to see your sweet love, Rose.”

I did not ask him what he meant
I did not call him when he went
Drifting like some poisonous mist
To dissipate into the vent.

A year had passed since Rose’s death
Nights I spent whoring, whiskey-vexed
Her shape was still equally missed
On unwashed sheets only half dressed.

For every love has its goodbye
All bright flowers wither and die
Time and death, we cannot resist
And sirens stir in the decline.

 

II.

I left my silver weapons home
‘Twas ten good years since they had shone
Our land dreaming and safe adrift
At last its final devils gone.

We cleansed the highlands and the low
Purged clear loch to Roman stone
Bags of copper spilled through our fists
With not a monster left to roam.

The last ones fled, or hid, or died
I can still hear every black cry
Those loathing hexes, gravely hissed
The Barghests’ were no milder kind.

And now I traveled those same roads
Until that Royal Mile I strode
Robert’s Close, could such place exist?
The cobbles cursed under my brogues.

In Grassmarket, at last I found
An alleyway, all spectral-bound
A name was written in dark script
Of a prince who’d never been crowned.

I scored a shovel for my work
In rusted iron, solace lurked
Imagining my future tryst
I staked it in the hardened earth.

Three feet deep, lay a small casket
A crude, wicker, coffin-basket
Its hard shell made my shovel slip
I kneeled down and unlatched it.

Inside the box, a woman’s skull
But no, not human, not at all
The fangs, the hair, those silver wisps
All bound within a crown of awls.

 

III.

The Barghest rasped into my ear
“How could they bury my love here?
Give her a grave as poor as this?
Monster hunter, it was but fear.”

“During your righteous purge for men
You toxified my family’s den
Never will my wife part her lips
To sing our babes asleep again.”

“See you why I had to infect her?
Why your Rose never got better?
The great trouble with fairness is
Blood for blood just makes us wetter.”

Oh how I raged, debased, and howled
I slashed them, punched them, kicked, and scowled
But my foe had returned to mist
I lay amidst a leering crowd.

I was street-side, covered in filth
A madman preaching madmen’s ilk
I closed my eyes and reminisced
As watchmen drove me up the hill.

Now in my cell, dank, black, and bare
I can taste the old, piss-sour air
I dream of secret doors promised
And retch at demons hidden there.

Flash Fiction: I Miss You

There is a click, click, click coming down the hall. The eaves that echo with every footfall, the ladder creaks as she begins to climb. Hands parting the cobwebs of this old attic. She hasn’t been up here in years.

The picture fills her hands and she cries. “I miss you, Mom. I love you so much. I miss the way you used to sing. I miss you making me soup when I was sick. I miss you just sitting there, watching me sleep. I miss you. I miss you.”

But she can’t hear me when I whisper, “I still do.”

***

First published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal.

The Berlin I Remember

berlin

 

This is the Berlin I remember
A glowing winter flame
Where open hands and steaming wine
Lay stones upon old pain.

 

berlin-2

 

When I think of Berlin,
There’s only one that I recall
Not the one of sorrow and blood
But the light that’s growing tall.

 

unnamed

 

Don’t send them empty platitudes
Or Facebook prayers or snark;
Instead become that winter flame
That banishes the dark.

Auschwitz

I visited Auschwitz today
Under a coal sky
And myriad
Autumn leaves.

 

I visited Auschwitz today
Under a coal sky
And myriad
Autumn leaves.

I lived in Krakow for two years
Before getting up the nerve.

The concrete rooms
Stank of evil
Watchtowers stood
In defiance of time.

Each barbed wire fence
A shadow of our worst selves.

Nationalism and racism
Are powerful drugs,
Destroying compassion,
Changing our compasses.

But I saw no well-intentioned roads there,
Only sorrow and a multitude of names.

I wondered what it felt like
Being forced to march
Towards a wall
Or into a concrete room.

But what I should fear instead,
Is not that I will be marched somewhere,

But that someday,
Somehow,
I could be the one
Forcing others to march.

Mieczyslaw Koscielniak, “Roll Call at Auschwitz,” 1944