What they seem to miss,
when I’m put back together,
is I’m still not whole.

On your bed, on a new continent,
I slowly glimmer out of existence,
a blip of shadow scuffed quietly
down downy comforters.

You play guitar above my head,
rogue notes peppering my cheeks
like iridescent snowflakes in summer:
rare but dazzling, ephemeral.

blast site settles
body of King Arthur wakes
unbeknownst to those nearby
essence of Lady Guinevere retained instead

her hands steady
eyes fixate on former Lancelot
crying out in vain to a lover
also transmogrified from the dead

his pulse hastens
hands to hilt to quell the former king
berserking by invulnerability of hate
also horrified from sordid swords of bed

arms outreached she
sprang to embrace her forever love
arms outreached he
sprang to end the life of his eternal foe

Guinevere to redo
the love Lancelot lost
Lancelot to undo
the chaos Mordred caused

I passed by your house
And fell down  down   down     d o  w    n
I never got back up

Penelope unravels the shroud
of her great grandfather (me)
and allows no visitors
during this supposed composition,
you see It was all set
but for that memorial day 
when returning from Dr. Hue’s
in sandals on wet cobble stone
this 84 y.o. body executed
a flat-face fall that led to ER
but no broken bones
just a bloody nose and bruised faced,
it kinda knocked the wind
from the lungs of an auto-bio
but even the gruesome selfies
(way worse than that broken legged
purple heart from 1962)
sent to Penelope at U.T. Austin
did not defer her from sailing
to her ailing bisexual g.g.father
to write his ship, so to speak

even in a life as old as this
it’s hard to believe what havoc
2 years can wreck, in 20-21
best buddy, Jack Teal, & yours
truly were having an unruly time
on our naval vessels
waiting out covid on that inland
sea of Lake Herrington, Oh My,
but then by last year J.T. was gone
as in died after a horrid nursing 
“home” visit and ZZ was kicked off
his boat and decamped 
to his sister’s abode at Alligator
Lake Condos in Temple Terrace 

horendous florida
last summer a wet rag on the heart
capped off with a flight north
when Ian rampaged the gulf
lucky for us little damage
then a fall-winter of wanton
hate being spewed in the sunshine
state, no one could suspect 
this old coot but still 
it’s a nervous venture
to be out 
and about

Richard the Third called for his horse once more,
but was run through by dramatic sword play.
He slumped to center stage in a death pose,
spotlight spilling over stage-bloodied head.

Absolute silence as we awaited
what came next. Then, up on one elbow…
“Isn’t he dead yet?” My father offered
his best sotto voce to one long “sh-h-h-h-h-h”

from the rest of the Shakespeare subscribers.
The actor broke the 4th Wall to giggle 
into death gasp while I sunk deeper
into shadow of long ago ringside

like my father did when I cried out that
Big Time Wrestling head stomps were, in fact, real.

With muscles fueled

By music (predominantly the heart),

I built up enough strength

To be able to stand up without

My head drooping down.

I suffered through heartache and grief

To finally be strong enough

To sit here unashamed,

Belting out my own melodies

As if they were being regurgitated from my chest.

The ones who truly loved me stay,

Hand in hand, pressed against the barricade.

While the ones who never did left

(And frankly, weren’t invited to begin with).

It took 23 years before the re-entry rules

Stopped being a pain in the ass.

I pick at the calluses on my fingertips

And the bruise on my forearm

Wondering which one i’ll write about next.

Some day I’ll write a happy little tune.

Something where the words aren’t so sad for once.

And I know that day is coming.

For the first time in 23 years,

I don’t feel alone, or hurt or bothered.

I feel peace. I feel santity.

I feel like me.

The heart wants what it wants,

And my god, it’s got it.

Gone less than a year.
Goodbye is not forgotten;
Wish you were still here. 

my hand rests
on the long table
next to the silver
cutlery

plant by the corner
door exit has grown
i often pour
cupfuls onto it
there are no questions here my
hand is still
on the table
infinite
laden by me and, ive decided,
splintered
by the hand
when it will lighten, grow, i plant
myself into
the table
splinter silver
cultery
then finally
they creak through
the opening