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Final Sale

My lips are dry; a sun-parched waste
Long forgotten; longing for the life-giving kiss of clouds.
The Breath of life, a sand blast
Scathing; gouging deep long scars of pink.

The cracks; etched patches whipped
By moans and screeches, robbing healing fluids.
Screaming silence stripping moisture barren sand;
A rugged figure, struggling in the glare;
He stands, glancing at the molten-dripping Sun.

He drops; and struggles, reaching toward a vision:
A hand stretched, a beautiful brunette—the Ice Queen;
An evil laugh; a promise; Roar! the sound of Water
Falling, tumbling, spilling forth to disappear at his feet.

Thoughts of water, struggling through his mind;
A drop, a gift to bribe; his hand, it reaches
Ever to his wallet; he opens it, pulls out one piece of paper,
Crying, he hands it to the woman.

“My soul,” he blurts, and grabs a glass of Water,
And turns to flee, leaving behind all memory of God;
But, miles away he turns for one last glance, and spies
A figure, gliding toward him, dashing in the sand:
The woman, calling him to stop.

She grins at him, reaching out her hand,
A piece of paper, illegible print, she forces into his.
She smiles, a wry smile; bellows forth a laugh;
Curtly, “Your receipt, sir.”

First published in Labyrinth, vol. IX no. 2 (USNA, 1984) under the pseudonym Samson Flanders.



a slam poem

This place sucks
But not ‘cause it’s this place
It’s not geographically based
It’s more vicinity
‘Cause all in my proximity
Just sucks.

I guess it’s me
‘Cause everywhere I go
All under my long shadow
Is dropped into despair
Beyond all hope, in disrepair
And I can’t flee.

A Midas touch
Except it’s in reverse
And all I touch is made perverse
A pustule-ridden sore
A sticky crusty theater floor
It’s all too much.

I can’t escape
It’s just as I say
I just can’t seem to get away (more…)

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