61/365: care and feeding of demons

demons are the stuff of strangled dreams -
crib dead, aborted -
they speak to us in sonorous
blue
and bloody tones;
they walk in forms made
from the husks of desire and lust.

one-handed, we feed them
from our radial artery -
all while we wail about injustice
and point about meaningfully
with the other hand.

this is the price of life support
for a thing we cannot let die.

72/365: John's Story: Seeing Her

when she came out to pick up the milk
that's when I saw her
bending over the tin box, flipping the lid
in her green silk housecoat

green like a fairy forest
where you might be lost forever
and no one would go in to look for you
because you would be gone.

I tried not to see her
really
but I couldn't not.

and I couldn't not think about her hips
afterward
and the ribbon that wrapped around her waist
that held the gown closed -
kept all the secrets hidden -
just one knot

I couldn't not undo it with my brains -
as I drove along my route,
house to house, door to door

nothing but the curls of her black hair

I couldn't shake it out
couldn't smoke it out
couldn't tell anyone cause
I don't have the words.
No one has the words for that.