To Place on the Tongue
The drug called the poetic word
Yearning and cravings so bright
they trip the light of my hovering
steel wings flapping above dreams of
one more hit in that sanctuary called
No Return.
***
Bang bang bang she calls me Headstrong,
heartstrong at wrong turns, regretfully so
although they go, and the spurns of an epoch
forget the one seed beneath
the bleed of fortunes.
***
So, I take another, and another —
the porous pill so promising in the
return of understanding words and ideas
with eagle eyes that spy where its prey
will even fight holy men.
***
You’ll say that trauma fastened these
seat belts so tight in a cul-de-sac acknowledgment
that no freedom begets freedom,
or that tiny ass up in my face blocking the view
of killing wasps.
***
So, I will quit only to have Love again sting the
hearth of my heart. For having created God again,
the likelihood of moving again in form,
wicked or not, in a teacup of temptation,
is so insignificant it hurts.
About the Creator
Paul Aaron Domenick
I taught high school English for 18 years but never developed my own writing and style until three years ago. Since then I have been submitting my work to publications. In exchange with others, my words constantly surface but never arrive.
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More stories from Paul Aaron Domenick and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Solitude of The Chupacabra
Many say that the Chupacabra is a rather recent and modern tale, a mangy coyote or rabied dog. Some point out that it’s just twisted evolution. But very few know the true backstory of the shapeshifter that led to the bloodsucking legend. And perhaps once you will come to know and understand more, you might “forget” a few cattle out to wander.
By Oneg In The Arctic5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
"The struggle is hard for everyone. And yours seems quite difficult. For me, no opioid heals me, because love cannot be cured by any foolish medicine. Wings never hesitate to fly. They just need a motive and a little compassion. I see the sparrow in the morning on the almond tree, and my soul fills with joy. Simple things, when you tame them within the pupil of an eye, then become a flame that makes the illusion of pain, of sickness, of addiction, of the need to go astray, dissolve and disappear. Truly only love, love, love. My father's hands moved more today and opened and closed with ease. He came home like a plant, and now he wants to jump on the domestic helper from Nepal. The poor woman smiles and helps him. I pray for him quite a bit, and for myself, and for all of us. I love you, and I am moved now. Kisses."