untitled

untitled, unfinished....

These days my life feels like a low budget horror movie
Written by, directed by, and starring two brothers from Pennsylvania,
The suspense too obvious, so many clues that nothing surprises.

The bricks over the windows of the brand new haunted house
Are drawn in Photoshop, the blind man can see just fine,
And the monster in the basement is always my brother,

The zombie grave my mother’s. I find her memories
When I look for them least, leaping out at me from crowds,
A haircut, a pair of sunglasses, an embarrassed glance.

But oh, she’s not dead, don’t let me fool you.
That would be too easy, mourning for her. It’s so much more
Complex to love and hate and strive to understand

Someone who still breathes out her prayers every night,
Still walks the land, plants a garden, plays an old
Out of tune piano when she’s alone.

and a revision of this. I learned, after writing the first draft, that one of the brothers referenced actually died this spring. So in lieu of a title, I dedicated to him, and revised to carry more of the movie images through to the end. I read this one last week along with "Target Practice".

For John Polonia

Some days my life feels like a low budget horror movie
Written by, directed by, and of course starring
Two nerdy looking brothers from Nowhere, Pennsylvania.

Everything feels delayed, a decade too late, and the timing is never quite right -
It moves so slowly, dragging over every detail of a dark wood, a dark room,
And then jumps back to a past that looks just the same.

The suspense is too obvious, so many clues that nothing surprises,
But it still doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why the aliens are here,
And I really don’t want to see any more breasts.

The bricks over the windows of the brand new haunted house
Are drawn in Photoshop, the blind man can see just fine,
And the monster in the basement is always my brother,

The zombie’s grave my mother’s. Her memories find me
When I expect them least, leaping out at me from crowds -
A haircut, a pair of sunglasses, an embarrassed glance.

But oh, she’s not dead, don’t be fooled by the dramatic music.
That would be too easy, mourning for her. Instead look into those glasses,
See the cameraman’s reflection. It’s so much more interesting

To love and hate and strive to understand someone who still breathes
Out her prayers every night, still walks the land, plants seeds in the earth,
And plays an old out of tune piano when she’s alone.