Richard Grahn
Last Account
We are vanishing from the earth, yet I cannot think we are useless
or else Usen would not have created us. He created all tribes of men
and certainly had a righteous purpose in creating each.
~Geronimo
time bomb . . .
the movement
of his watch
as he throws
the first punch
The wind is honest but unpredictable—sometimes brutally so.
Night is punctual, but has its moods, sometimes quiet and inviting, sometimes cold and creepy.
The world is flailing in darkness and wind. The Engine of Change has become a brand of meat grinders—those machines designed to churn out burnt, human hamburger patties and radioactive pickles. That’s what’s special on the menu tonight at Mother Earth Diner, and every other night while supplies last. The rest of the entrees were discontinued the day Wisconsin turned to ash—a day I was poisoned with grief and regret. The basement shielded me from the blast. I found Caroline’s body face down in the street.
Right now, somewhere, a field of wildflowers is starting to bloom. They’re all a little bit crooked, though, as if they don’t quite know where the sun is. Go figure—we’re all choking on the same atmosphere.
Night is a friend in the candlelight. My fingers move over the keys and every fiber of my constitution reaches. Reaches to wrap my arms around your corpse and, with a kiss, bring you back to life. In my nightmares, you are a casualty. You lie in the infirmary of my mind in those special bandages used by the Egyptians to preserve their Pharaohs. Their freeze-dried tamales, on the other hand, are cardboard compared to the fresh ones we used to get just down the street. Still, we have to eat.
shards
of a crystal ball . . .
my future a mess
on the floor
I just swept
Flintlocks took a long time to load. First, we learned to aim and shoot. Next, we learned how to shoot without aiming. Anyone up for catching bullets? Just don’t store your collateral at home if you want to prevent it from being bombed. After the tamales, tequila. See what I mean—bombed! The guacamole makes you glow.
knocking down pins
at the bowling alley . . .
a group of boys
settling scores
in the parking lot
Conventional wisdom dictates the terms of surrender. Wedding rings should make it all better. But the icing on the cake is always destined to wind up on the girl who just popped out of it.
Caroline, I have braided your flaming hair into a rope so that you may climb up out of this hell. There are no church bells ringing today. We, the survivors, will gather in silence to see you off. After the service, we’ll share the last stale loaf of bread, then lie down together: men, women, and children of all colors, rich and poor, the oppressor and the oppressed, believers and non-believers, left, right, and middle, flower children and warmongers. We’ll lie here tonight—just a huddled mass—sharing what’s left of our body heat.
About the Author
Richard stays busy as the “founding collaborative artist” and “Jack of some trades” at Drifting Sands Haibun and the Drifting Sands – Poet’s Hub. He has been widely published online and in print. His comprehensive bio and more of his poetry can be found on his Poet’s Hub Page and Blog.