Bull. Shit.
Interior Decorating
JCD Kerwin
Laminate all the hate
in uneven pieces on the floor:
a broken mosaic of all the plunders
they pounded on each other—
can’t fake it or make it
disappear.
Reflecting their memories like stained glass.
(April, 2014)
Beams
JCD Kerwin
I will build my house
without a roof
so that the moon
will fill the rooms
in luminescent blue—
the kind of color
I remember
once-upon-a-time
in the dark with you.
(January, 2014)
Side-note: “Once-upon-a-time” is a stupid phrase I use far too much.
Cherry blossoms at Mount Yoshino
Yoshino Blossoms
JCD Kerwin
I close my eyes
and find you there,
just as before,
on the mountain,
like I remember us:
hand-in-hand,
paying our respects, and
watching the petals
melt into rain puddles and
floating away,
just like our love.
Photo courtesy http://www.netcarshow.com
Mister Beauregard
JCD Kerwin
Mister Beauregard has no heart. He keeps an antique, silver watch just above his breast coat pocket, just above his heart, so that the tick-tick-tocking mimics the thump-thump-bumping of a normal man’s heart.
He drives a Chevelle‘69, just to pass the time, as he listens to the tick-tick just above his breast bone, just across his chest, in his powder-blue, Chevy ’69. It’s leftover from the times he drove ‘till sunrise on the strip; ‘till he drove all night chasing phantoms in his vision while he looked at Mars. Now he sees shadows when he stares; he sees clouds when he knows it should be Heaven in the stars.
His eyes are made of glass, they say, because to buy his poor wife’s ashes he had to give his real ones both away. Her ashes sit near the magazines he never reads, and by the urn that keeps the fattest tabby you’d have ever seen. Its name was Max and it chased cedar waxwings in the yard.
He smokes cigars when he drives so far, and the smoke curls like clouds along the Sunset Boulevard. He dreams he’s somewhere that’s neverwhere and notquitehere because he can’t quite see or hear the ticking of reality the rest of us all breathe and fear. He’s someone else who isn’t here; someone who is nevermore…the ghost of Mister Beauregard.
(March, 2012…although I could’ve sworn it was older.)
Now that I read this, I’m not at all fond of it. Even after revising the thing, it is, quite frankly, shite. (But isn’t that how we always think of our stuff?)
My paper boat by Aljaz Toman (sharkowskixchaos on devaintART)
Ink trails
JCD Kerwin
We used to sleep ‘till noon on Sundays because on Saturday nights we drowned in Manhattan, drinking each other under the city moon. Just tasting you made me an alcoholic.
You missed Louisiana and crayfish. I promised to take you back to wooden bridges and hot summer days as soon as I finished chasing my dreams. You never waited. I lost you where my eyes turned violet in the dark; the place we watched the stars all night and dreamed we weren’t at all that small.
We made origami from newspapers that belonged to homeless men who died upon the streets.
I remember paper boats in the distance and laughing in the night. We never listened to voices that told us Forever might someday end.
I watched you drift away on our paper ship; I watched you sink and fade, soggy to the sea. Paper ink floated with your hair while your smile became lost among the Funnies.
Now I stand on skyscrapers, sending paper airplanes into the city-sea. I watch them sail away with every memory of you.
(Nov. 2011)
J.C.D. KERWIN 