Angelic-

Angels storm the drain.

Circling my bath-tub slowly,

treading lightly upon a much forgotten

mythology.

 

Angels storm the drain.

And it feels like thunder and

it feels like rain.

 

Come crashing into waves,

encroaching droplets, pellets of hail,

lightening and thundering,

as Angels storm the drain.

 

My dog hides in plain sight,

upon our bed,

her entire 85 lbs is shaking

all over again,

 

but Angels storm the drain.

It’s like a song, or

simply a bizarre refrain,

an Army of Angels storming

the drain, yet treading very lightly

as only Angels are accustomed too.cell 69 048

cigar smoke and roses

today was a strange day.
random, surreal,i could almost
taste your unspoken name, on my lips, like a peach,
or a plum, dripping juices down
my toungue.

these thoughts of you were hazy,
in the back of my head,
like just so much
background noise.

it was all static then, like fuzz
on an old broken down old time tv.
until then, when i caught a whiff
of someones cigar.

i was standing in one of
Detroit’s casinos and i smelled
that rare type of smoke,
and it smelled of you.

about a half an hour later,
i smelled the other smell,
which reminds me of my mother,
the strong stench of roses,
like an old women’s perfume.

Although my mother never wore that type
of perfume. She did however love flowers,
and she did grew roses with other things.

strangeness that i forgot,
you always grew roses too,
much more vivid then my mothers,
you had huge rose bushes
they still grow in our yard even now-
almost seven years since you passed away.

it that the smell of memories,
or is that the smell of grief?
or better yet it is the strange smells of comfort,
that i still have not lost either,
one of you,

despite the fact you disappeared,
dark and deep, sweet unto death.