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mascara in the rain

Press the pedal down, and keep it there the whole time like it is the gas and the road is open. Sing slowly, but not too slow. Take pauses, but not long ones. Keep a light touch on your left hand  - the bass notes are louder than the other ones. Your right hand is cramping up, your fingers are too thick for the keys. A rumble from the hallway as the elevator doors smash open and closed. Another take, another chance to get it right.

Two days later, trying to nail down the same song - about mascara running down her face like she got caught in the rain. A song about meeting death with all of the grace that can be found. About fear, beyond regret. About the things you did right, measured against the things you did wrong. Words about what you think you deserve, and what you will probably get. 

It is a tall order, and my voice cracks on the high parts. It digs deep on the low ones that are just out of reach. I retreat into singing it all quieter, which may be the best idea yet. The compute…

black on black

I cannot say very much
about the black on black
the bloody days and
the tense moments making life
count while I wait
for the police to come
but they never do
just a trick to
scare me
but I am not scared.
I will spend my last moments of
freedom with that
little girl who eats peanut butter
with a spoon right
from the jar
every time the police are
supposed to
bust in.

I will walk in the cold air
and buy
raisin pastries
for her, every morning
no matter what.
I am her father, no matter
where I sleep.

I will listen to Beatles songs
and think the
black on black
cannot be more
than this.
That the snow did come quickly
and yes, we made miniature
snowmen and
snow women together before
she got cold and we went inside
for soup and


brenda said…
For what it's worth, I'm right there with you, M. Try and write your way out of the dark. It helps. I swear, it does...

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