Thursday, May 31, 2007

Gleam of Knife

I'm a good man,
who got pushed too far.

There's no love in San Sulpice,
there's no twist in Penelope's neck,
there's no anger in that old prick's face over there,
there's no reason to be jealous,
but there is a gleam of knife with your name on it.

I've been drinking, sure,
and I'm drunk right now.
My name is James Herring,
and I'm going to kill you
for what you've done to me.
When I find you, your time's run out,
you've wasted it on a life
that lacked courage and
the ability to forge healthy relationships.

I believe in things,
I do.
And when you believe in things,
you can only be so flexible,
before you realize something
needs done.

It's time to clean up this mess.

A tree is planted in the forest
by the forces of nature
and THAT is no different than what
I'm about to do.

My name is James Herring.

I'm a good man,
who got pushed too far.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

The Barber of Seville

My sister was murdered,
by a man named Smith,
but the police had forgotten her name.

"I'll nail that sumbitch,
I'll nail him good,"
I said,
and my road took me to Seville.

High school year books and librarians
can't help me.
They only spin tales
of the past,
but a call from a brother and a word from a mother,
and once again I am sniffing the trail.

Smith, you see, once made a box.
It held the remains of his wife,
but not of my sister, of another young
blister on the palm of this man's life.

He killed her and chopped her
and laid her to rest
in this hard, cold splintery grave.

A divorce she had asked, but it was his will
to kill her and hide her away,
and not till his brother came forward to speak,
his brother, the barber of Seville
did I have a good lead
to find where my sister might lay.

That barber, o barber who trimmed men's hairs
all the livelong. He'd visited AA meetings
for twelve long years but this secret still
ate him alive.

He knew the box, both inside and out,
he'd seen her face and her rainbow hair
and the rolls of clothes folded 'neath her.
And he went to the cops,
finally,
after all these long years and told them
of grandpa's old barn.

Someday, I hope to forget Seville,
that little old town in Ohio,
but until then, I will wait in my skin
and mourn my dear lost lonely sister.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Ode on Tasteless Little Sausages and Fat, Fat Cows

The meat grinder of time
grinds on, grinds you down
into little sausages.

Little tasteless sausages,
terrified sausages, afraid to speak,
afraid to think or act.

You've been seasoned white
with fear, worry, and anger;
the seasonings of modern experience.

Once you marched along,
such tender, sweet pieces of meat,
and so pure and unique.

Now you're tainted by fenced-in cows
who will only eat the green grass of home,
and tell you you're no longer safe in your own backyard.

And that meat grinder blends you
all together into that same batch
of tasteless, quivering sausage.