skonen_blades

And now the thunder is far away
(far away)
He hears it muffled by distance
No dishes rattle off the table
No mothers sprout bruises
No glasses explode against the wall
No sudden darkness invades the dinner table
No screams erupt
No walls collapse
Because now the thunder is far away
(far away)
It’s been decades
He feels like there is nothing here now
Only safety
Only control
The impact of the lightning
Receding further into the past
He scans for danger and finds none
He scans again
He scans again
He feels like there is nothing here now
Only safety
But he still hears the thunder
Far away
(far away)




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Fill each coffin up with years. Swing them on balance beams and let the cats out of the old hotel. I want the life of a jury nestled deep within the wood of an arrow to find a home. These are the outstretched arms of an apology.

I’m calling you.

I’m an undead pope come back from the grave to tell you the secret. Music in a tuxedo with a bullet hole turning whatever time I have left into an hourglass that begs. My bones are a stuttering staircase that roll themselves into a punch of blood music. The rimshot of my heartbeat tells the audience when to laugh.

Swim away from the bruises. Months later, you’ll be mystified why you ever stayed. You can’t see the fuse getting closer to your life or the clock strapped to your back. I’ve seen your long legs before. They’re made for running. Use them.

If love is blind, why did someone give it a bow and arrow? Cupid’s random sniper eyesight is making a farce of all of this. We are fools for love in every respect.

We are insects trapped in amber on the hilt of a sword. You have a honeycomb inside your chest making square dances out of morals. When he hits you, I feel it. Let’s transform my dark-brown POS into an ejection seat, hide outdoors and leave the city limits behind us for years.

Coming to your rescue is a job for a job for pearl divers. I’m not a strong swimmer. I can’t hold my breath. You think you’re a mermaid but you’re not. You’re drowning.

There’s a theme song for a television show from the seventies going through my head as the sunset catches up with me. I’ve run out of time. My warnings have been unsaid, and it’s time to head back to the grave. Maybe one day this world will get it right but for now, we have to believe that the triumph lies in the attempt.

And nowhere else.




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I could say that his smile was as cold and as empty as his wife’s place at the table.

I could say that his temper ran the gamut from aggressive to murderous to idle.

I could say that his ability to see both sides of a situation was non-existent and that his comprehension of happiness was measured only in degrees of triumph over someone weaker.

King of a small town. This was the mayor of Shelley’s Bend, Connecticut. This was my father.

I was adopted.

My hair was as blonde as his was black. After my mom left, any vestige of familial pretense disappeared between us. We became room-mates who did our best to avoid each other until I was old enough to move out.

To this day, years later, I’ve never been comfortable having dinner at a friend’s place if their parents are still together and they have brothers and sisters that get along. It’s not that I’m resentful, it’s just that I don’t really know ‘what one does’ in that situation. I keep my head down and try to be polite as often as it occurs to me. I pretend to be what I see on television.

For me, nuclear-family normalcy is the twilight zone that I’ve never been comfortable around.

My bicycle was my best friend during those years. I explored the empty miles around this small town. The cops, knowing I was the mayor’s kid, gave me a lot of leeway.

I found my first body when I fourteen.



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