War looms unpredictable,

War looms unpredictable,
Balmy clouds forcing me into despicable liaison,
With abandoned and unkempt shelter,
With roofs like pinhole cameras,
Catching all the broken light,
That sputters over milk white structures,
Perhaps vermillion when the sun is downing,
When the cameras need external brilliance,
To shutter their imaginary glass eyes,
To forever preserve,
To assist cranial perspectives,
To adapt my timid frame to the surroundings.

A day of waking from tiredness,
Restless concepts built from a frantic January,
That follow me through more months and mornings than that,
And you can rub your eyes to give greeting,
Or get meaning through voyeuring,
Old slatted walls leave holes where plaster is bled out by rain,
Watch them walk and dance and pray,
See them dress.

Then we are getting married…

There is not a cake, imagine that,
But what’s under that veil?
That… shroud?

I might be losing clarity.

It’s HIM under that cloth,
I nonchalantly toss aside the fabric,
It looks like a blue bed sheet,
And it’s HIM beneath it.

I think, boy, why are you at my wedding,
Why are you at my most sacred day of union?
But neither my hands nor face respond to such logic,
Because I’m cutting him up with silverware,
I’m putting cake-like slices of him on platters for guests.

I feed a piece to my beloved bride,
And she eats a morsel with a grin,
What is this grin she is wearing?
Its reminiscence, I recognize it,
She has eaten this Goddamn cake before.

Furious at something and I’m whirling around with cake-ware,
Collapsing tables and slapping even the feeble guests,
I’m humiliated,
He has crawled inside,
He is ruining my finest moment.

Yet war looms, paltry and irresponsible,
It settles on dusty side roads,
It smokes harsh cigars,
It carries a heavy bag that jingles like loose pocket change,
It slings its dirty sack over one shoulder,
To let the other rest a while.

I’m in a tattered tuxedo,
Still running from the ruins,
That special day was built of wax impressions,
Meant only to melt with the passion of the moment.

I remember cutting your little eyes from the cake,
And every few miles a finger will find them in my breast pocket,
I’ll make sure they remain,
Two bead-like brown eyes,
Fixed pupils like eminent train wrecks,
Can’t help but stare at them,
Maybe that was her problem too,
To fall forever into their meaning,
I just have to see what she wanted with them…

I’m surprised you could keep up all those years,
It’s amazing the time you spent traveling,
From state to state,
In all of our little apartments,
Maybe you just found some niche in my brain,
And stuck there steadfast,
Waiting for the moment to strike.

I’m broken as I wander the black highway,
Sputtering recitations and problematic vows,
Screaming to hot deaf air what I knew was once love.

Because war looms in the unopened lids of my shaded eyes,
And my stares are now just as blank and unpredictable,
They are the last visual stabs of a shattered wanderer.