War Stories

If you don’t know what it is, I ain’t never goin to be able to explain it to you

                                                                                                            --Louis Armstrong

                        War Stories

Grasping an ameliorated heart with the claws of reckoning,

He sees his doppelganger smile to him,

He is improving now.

But he

Walked through with clowns,

And he

Leaned against his romanced reflection,

Hid in secluded wonderment.

He was once a cerebral alchemist,

Understanding the penurious characters

Ubiquitous to his new habitat,

Feeling, just feeling the junk in his veins.

The dreams of carnal nights,

Became reality again,

Under the sheets,

Rolling like thunder.

But distant callings

Said imperatively,

To come back,

It is warm here.

His rapid eyes twitched behind steel lids,

It had him now-- pulling, plummeting feelings.

He held tight onto a childhood blanket;

Bought a ticket

To ride the wall of death one more time

In the carnival where jesters grin from

Their homes of chemical compounds;

Rooftops,

Beaten by the sparkling rain of stars.

And Nasonex would heal the injured adenoid,

Living life swimming

In a colorful garbage sea.

He could clearly see the glass doors opening,

But he was affectively jarred,

Befriended eternal dysthymia when she was gone,

Her ways of understanding the outlines of his mind,

And her love was all he needed,

Sustenance of her powder;

She was his tender junk and helped him see forever,

The fading pictures of girlfriends,

Are replaced by posters of secluded screams.

Now,

His eyes are taciturn and cold,

He sees nothing again.

And the skeleton of his hollowed pen

Points downward to those tender lines of

Destruction and infinity.