Cranks and Cranes

There is no novelty to illness,
but bystanders either look too closely
or prefer to observe
from miles away,
still intrigued,
twisting their long necks to see
as they get a little closer.

"Hey, I need help,"
becomes a tired,
yet necessary, phrase,
once the scene
comes into focus.
It's a statement
reluctantly uttered,
with little spikes catching
in your throat.

The listener becomes
just as prickly, sometimes.
Other times, just tired.
Not as tired as you are,
having spent
all of your adult life sick.

Sometimes, there's a little
skip in the mix,
when the edgelords
have quieted
and the soft, strong tones
float to the surface,
crisp effervescence:
"I want you to live."

And that's who you try to listen to.
Not the cranks or the cranes.
When your own voice emerges,
unwavering, that's even better,
but for now,
you take what you can get.

Untitled

violence begets violence,
they said,
and the others saw
the invitation
and took
their backyard torches
and arrived
like a wave of fire
over the town.
this is for you,
the others said,
and blood
stained their mouths
as they chanted
blood and soil
blood and soil
and mashed
their cold bodies against
time and history,
shoved their lives through
blockades of clergy,
of punks,
of comrades,
waves of fire.
violence begets violence,
they said,
as the warm glow,
crackling and humming,
grew louder