That uptight chap with shirt tucked in,

whiskers shaved,

and trousers creased,

 

using formal speech,

perfect diction,

and impeccable etiquette,

 

responsible beyond belief,

organizing every last detail,

and maintaining order in his world,

 

that steadfast bloke has worried himself silly,

chewed his manicured nails to nubs,

and nearly pulled out all his hair

 

as his utility is questioned,

his existence proposed obsolete,

and his presence only desired

 

by stodgy traditionalists,

rigid editors,

and English professors.

 

After being snubbed by companions,

excluded from clubs,

and ignored by neighbors,

 

abandoned by hope,

cheer,

and humor,

 

he broods alone in his room,

looks around,

and finally settles his gaze

 

on a revolver,

a rope

and some pills.

These empty roads

wind through what seems

like barrenness but is really

possibility, and I speed,

faster, farther, alone for miles.

Thoughts I usually censor,

dreams I rarely allow,

echo across red canyons,

swirl around sagebrush,

waiting to be acknowledged.

 

The mountains, stacked

and layered, silhouetted

against acres of sky,

loom like my future,

anchor like my past,

pointing to all I will

and will not become,

shadows of all I have

and have not been.

Accelerating, I drive farther,

faster into this sparse,

wild state, aching

for the clarity found only

on long, lonely highways.

Flaming ribbons ripple

across landscapes,

igniting delight

 

Orange and gold rebels

incite riots of joy,

changing everything

 

Evaporating,

that green abundance

we could not stop drinking

 

In summer’s sultry stupor

we forgot

we would wear coats again

 

Drowning in life’s bounty,

choking on beauty,

not needing rescue

The night’s nimble fingers

sneak in through the screen

to scribble crisp, cool letters

on bare arms, wild messages

whose meanings will be dreamt

If I swim far enough

through this darkness

there has to be light somewhere

 

The ashes do not convey

the essence of you,

not even close

 

At the river today

even the ducks

looked for you

 

Your collar with your smell,

your familiar jingle,

empty of you

 

This house, so hollow,

so quiet, while we wait

for healing

 

Your hair still appears

in the dustpan,

whispers of comfort

 

Fourteen days and still

I crumple

at the smallest things