Birth of a Hero

I am forever cursed to recall

the blood-stained ring

from the kid who never rose from the fall.

Haunted by the silence that pierced the screaming squall,

the borough jewel’s last seconds standing

I am forever cursed to recall

glassy eyes, near shut, unafraid of the assault

of my punches. Heavier than granite, he collapsed after the ding.

The kid who never rose from the fall

had a heart stronger than his flesh. My fists pound into the wall

until they bleed, praying to feel an ounce of his pain. My sin

I am forever cursed to recall

every time I am mentioned as the victor. The idol

I will never be laid in mahogany. A procession following

the kid who never rose from the fall.

The line of cars drove by his towering mural.

A tribute from the city that lowered their warrior down as a king.

Forever willing to recall

the hero who never rose from the fall.

Rural Decay

Lead flakes fall from farm house

siding, landing silently, staking their claim

to a rotting fence expanse

of sick soil, cracked

like lips of the father

who cries alone, clutching God

between his hands, begging

to know why his prodigal son

never returned. Tears land

on creaky floorboards

like stubborn drops of whiskey

into the mother’s mouth. As dust infects

light’s last moments, she disappears

into mawkish daydreams

where the sun doesn't limp, bloody,

under the horizon. Cradling the empty bottle

like the young daughter– now grown

weary of dilated pupils– who gazes beyond

earthly storm to emerging stars,

wondering if they shine brighter

in places that grow

more than tombstones.