shapes

by DB Cox

back from iraq
with stories to tell
distorted dream shots
captured in sensaround
brutal
disjointed
scenes streaming
in vivid
heartbreaking detail--
but as silence
walks him down
easy hometown streets
past sunday night
living rooms
lit by wide-screen TVs
overlaid with
bought-&-paid-for
prophets taking back
old american promises--
the tales die
inside his heart--
recollections that burned
blood-red in the dark
gone cold
as the ghosts
who breathed them--
& he begins
to comprehend
how these shapes
carved into his soul
are only empty outlines
forever shackled
to another place
another time

broken places

by DB Cox

sometimes at night
after the last light
has been doused
& the holy meds
have rendered him
oblivious to the pain
& sickening smells
of the v.a. ward
he can feel the void
that stretches
out from his body
in every direction--
360 degrees
of seclusion
dead as a disconnected phone
& he reaches blindly
into the black absence
hoping his fingers
will brush against
something he can hold onto
maybe a wayfaring angel
who might allow
a little unexpected mercy
& lift him above
these broken places--
back to days
of grace
& the face of a kid
singing to himself
as he plays alone

the moon cries

by DB Cox

just out of range
of a street lamp
under tree branches
that shadow-dance
the empty avenue--
drawn here
every night to stare
at the small house
on the corner
her new friend’s
beat-up blue chevy
planted like a conquering
flag in the driveway
every dirty detail
behind those cheap
curtains burned
by time
into my brain
every whiskey-driven scar
fixed in faded walls
every shattered glass
& broken promise
every meaningless minute
spent apologizing--
begging mercy
for every wrong thing

feeling strangely numb
i slide a hand
inside my jacket pocket
where it grazes
the cool metal
of a waiting .38
crazy time of night
when lost wolves
are silent
& the moon cries

friday night in the drunk tank

by DB Cox

floating over drunk tank hum
a voice
at the back of the holding cell
demands a phone call

warm blood
begins to move
back into my numb hands
from cuffs--too tight

tiny shards of glass
from a beer-bottle bar fight
embedded in my
blood-matted hair

crystal ringing
in my brain
like a beautiful
girl’s name

left eye swollen shut
thirteen dollars
stashed in the soles
of my old dingos

not enough for bail--
another friday night
in the city jail
for trying to make something

out of the emptiness
that crawls along
this boulevard
of half-remembered things

waiting

in this corner room
windows closed
doors bolted
a shit-city statistic
nodding
into the half-light
as a worn needle
scrapes over
smoky songs
blown by
the cracked lips
of long dead gods--
drunken stereophonic
dreams mingling
with the smells
of rotting back alley
trash--gnawed at
by fat rats
& starving dogs
too spent to howl
into the un-obligated
electric dusk
of men & volts

waiting--
to confess
the crimes
that have left me here
ready to admit
how at each
crossroads
i chose this way
toward this place--
from light
to dark
note to note
line to space
all taken apart
scrutinized
screamed into

waiting--
for something
to come back
an answer
an explanation
anything
other than the empty
echo of my own
voice
dying away
against the walls
of this tomb
this waiting room

by DB Cox