Ask me anything, I’ll tell you goodbye.
I’m a heavy but open book,
Turn a page, you’ll see
Weighted pages covered,
Liquid ink staining
A clean, white page
Leaden in lead scratches,
Tearing at a tree’s sacrifice
For burdens of a metaphoric life
Literally burning to be real
Missing pages, burnt fringe
Lingering as it always does..
Never subtracting weight,
Lost in lost spaces
Between page after page
Just light enough to carry
Like crosses through lives
Crucified at intersections,
Cut by edges of paper that
After the split, stained
Ink left red in the margins,
Marking every mistake,
Regret, doubt and conscious
Unconsciousness, where dead authors
Who must not be named, Never
Cast out like aspersions
Into depths of bigotry.
O, cursed void of word
Dweller of deep cracks
Underminer, root twister–
Read the Ouija’s Truth
Between dead lines
Scorned truth lies on the horizon,
Pages filled with facts of the grotesque
Black pages that burn out lying men’s eyes.
Women’s hands, reaching out move the planchette.
Words expelled, propelled, twisted
Like the soul laboring to write
Warmth into a frigid night, no sun
For cold white knights with blank pages
Lingering in the twilight, unfinished
Frigid fingers grip an aborted fetus
under the table
a little cash
Where a child’s fate is shaped,
Folded to fit inside a gold-lined pocket
Where she never belonged until broken
Marriage bells rang, waking to memories
Of stolen identities lost
to greedy men
Advantage, giving way to fragments of life
Given to unforgiven men with
Giving burden to open books.
Were his own pages not enough?
Open books are for reading–
For carrying on and and on and on
Truth that’s shared after closing
Time, where remembering’s in lingering
Resonant thoughts reconciled to souls
Cursed by empathy and understanding,
While blessed fools draw their own conclusions.