October Poem 4: The Twilight of the Vampire Mopeds

You won’t have to change the tires or fill

Up the gasoline. Just a few drops of

Blood and you will be racing down the street

Impressing your friends and getting chores done

Lickety-split. Just like Bella climb on

Edward’s back and race down the streets in a

Blur just above two hundred miles per

Hour. With a jab to the ribs, he will

Leap to a nearby stand of trees and flit across

The tops. Slice open a vein and pay for

The wide open American culture

Of vehicular freedom. All very

Reminiscent of The Little Shop of

Horrors that is the Texaco station.

 

 

 

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October Poem 3: Twilight in Washington

When she feels the churning green glow of the

Hardening voices. She escapes into

The hard binding of her books. She had read

All of the books about vampires who

Fall in love with girls. Now, she has begun

To read about werewolves who fall in love

With girls. Next she will read about mummies

Who fall in love with girls. Then, ghosts who fall

In love with girls. Then, Frankensteins who fall

In love with girls. She was fifteen when she

Broke his corrupt hands and began to slip

From one man to another. Pulled to these

Books to see children rioting in beauty

To see things she had always never had.

 

 

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September Poem 27: The Killing Light

The light that you might see looking out the

Back door at a twilit morning. The street-

Light just brighter than the purpled light

Glowing over small hills. The light that pulled

You out of bed at four in the morning

To check on your dogs in their pin because

They didn’t even perk up to the sound

Of you moving in the dark. But you just

Couldn’t make it past your back steps. The light that

You mistake for the glow of the exhaust

In your neighbor’s tail lights as he scraped ice

From the windshield of his truck. The light that

Sends you back in with a chill. The light that

Just felt too wrong. Each of us holds the light.

April Poem 27: NaPoWriMo

If the cornerstone happened

Inviting nature of gold to the communicator,

The bed with all the pillows and the sun

Would begin to peek through

The lace curtains that just happened.

 

I was in a twilight world between

The dying faces of the crowd.

I could conceive other four senses.

 

Because of the after.

Because all is from care.

I tried to keep his son

From glancing up from the paper,

Taking his eyes from the making of a mess.