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You’re still here. I can see you Standing in my backyard with your coffee cup Walking across the patio, pausing to pet the dog Tool bag in tow perhaps Or carrying a slab of meat you got on sale Coming in the back door Without ever being offered that option Because that’s the way that
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On the day he was dying I was in a room full of singers who knew something was wrong But were singing anyway Because there was nothing else that any of us could do Except to carry on. Isn’t that how he would have wanted it? And after I had finished singing about the Christ
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When someone feeds you It is like a little love note One that says “I see your humanity And I’ll meet this most basic need.” When someone feeds you It is like the relief of a cool cloth Against your fevered forehead Or the soft song of your mother As you drift to sleep, A
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He didn’t quit, and we didn’t talk about that night in November again. We just lived in an uneasy tension for the next several weeks. On New Year’s Eve, the bar was filled with people, and we were too busy to be distant or angry with each other. By the time the ball dropped,
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So, for the next several months I spent a lot of time at the bar working while Dickerson spent a lot of time at home working. It didn’t bother me much—I actually found I got more work done without him there to distract me with jokes and gossip and recaps of televisions—but it did
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At first, everything was fine. Dickerson and I would start work around 3 pm, opening the bar around 4 pm, and working until 2 am, a few hours after last call. We worked 6 days a week. It was grueling at times, but it was also exciting. Some nights were slow, but others were
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Everyone told me that there would be trouble if I went through with it, but I’m hopelessly optimistic that everyone will see my side of things, so I ignored them and forged ahead with my plans. Even so, I had to give myself a good talking to in the mirror on that morning I went
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Lord, spare the dying From lingering too long While the people who love them Keep endless hours, sleepless, restless Sitting, ragged, by their bed. Lord, spare the dying From the pain of witnessing The weight of loss reflected In the eyes of the people who gather ‘round Singing, crying, grieving Even before they pass. Lord,
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After he died, we went to the local Wal-mart And bought the nicest clothes we could find there What I would have worn, had I known, was in the closet at home. The brown corduroy skirt and striped button up Would just have to do. It snowed, Those enormous, wonderful flakes Falling faster than we
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They were not called for another three days. The letter Frank was given was thick. As he tucked it into his pocket, he heard whispers in an unknown tongue. Corrupted. He tried not to think of it, but that only made me think of the words that had been seared onto his eyelids. Daag glash
The Quick and the Dead
Short stories. Creative experiments. Ideas that might not pan out.
The Quick and the Dead 