By
David Bankson
Alacrima
Every heartache is worth examining
with a heavy loaded gun in mind;
but a calamitous event
flattens in a drop of saline
as it secretes from the lacrimal glands.
It serves to protect and heal
the surface of heart and cornea,
a softening of the scalpel blades –
necessary despite distortion.
The question remains of how to unload
without withdrawing into artifice.
The desert crocodile is known
to approximate its consistency
in terms of viscosity,
tonicity.
tonality,
totality.
No, THAT we understand, and all too well:
useless as a medical textbook
bracing a table leg,
and we won’t have any of that
if we are to be honest with ourselves.
I cannot find the words or facts
to express such devastating grief.
When tears alone are not enough,
I remain a loaded gun.
I remain a heavy, loaded gun.
Capital
There exist two types of sound:
The endless shrieking, and
The silence that drowns it.
We can’t go back after what we’ve done,
No matter how much we ignore.
Whispers slip through radio silence
And light upon our quivering shoulders
With the weight of a full moon’s gaze.
Thirty-thousand days…
After so long, who are the true monsters?
Memories exist only for the past,
But the past is false white noise.
Which dictionary defines “evil”
As the motive of ghosts?
We think we climb from a trench,
But we only fill its cavity with shit.
At first blush, it all seems utopian:
Decorating to cover up blood stains.
Listen! It’s the shrieks of specters
Behind our silent mass consumption.
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