Dead Air

My father was awake when I arrived.

He greeted me with a limp, from the knee

stiff like stale balsa wood that would break

on a heavy step. He stumbled out of his cave—

the room, in which my mother and him settled

a piece treaty of sorts. Their beds touching, bare

at the edges; just enough to breach the nine month

separation they endured. His thick words trickled

from his mouth, in a barely audible sound as though

he was praying under his breath for god to come soft

and steal him from the bodily pain. At first he greeted

me with name of my uncle, then he paused and searched

my visage for a question. The dead air around us was loud

enough to bleed an eardrum. "Oh," he said, "it's you. What

are you doing here?" I had come to feed the animals, but in

turn, I left with the ghost of my father, who is not dead, but sick.

leaving the foxhole

this is how it started:
a blow was thrown
bob, weave
duck.
sweat glistens
on the brow, on the knuckles
raining the mat.
but no blood, not yet.

this is how it progressed:
swinging swords
from a sheath that is a closedmouth
sever the thickness
stale air splintered by breath
hot like steamin rain gutters.
but no blood, not now.

this is how it escalated:
mortor fore spots the sky
like flocks of geese,
until they shower down.
shellshocked and shunned
so run for cover, return fire.
but no blood, not even.

this is how it climaxed:
a hand off through door crack
skin contact with the enemy
rules of engagement says to aid
so with the formality of conflict
a tissue paper cease fire.
but no blood, not cleaned.

this is how it dragged:
a layer of cinder block bricks
stacked with breach of trust
through espionage and invasion.
a cold war of finger pointing
when an arm rejected
the offer of peace.
but no blood, not flowing.

this is how it resoluted:
peace talks and treaties
enemy contact established
when a soft hand grips the rough
hand of the adversary.
weapon stock piles are scrapped
so bridges can be built with their
soldered flesh-

but no blood, not for a pointless war
when words are sharp
and there is a shortage of bandages.





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Synonym to: absorbing, amusing, appealing, attractive, compelling, curious, engaging, engrossing, entertaining, gripping...

I’ve been told I’m interesting. Interesting. Interesting. What a word. The word it self is interesting, in turn, this extract a response by the sound. The ebb and flow of the reverberation made between the “in” and the “tere” tailed by the “sting”.

But those are things I learned in linguistics. Linguistics is a class that was interesting. We learned about language, the spoken form coughed from the throat curled off the tongue like an illicit act. So there are noise-forming words with meaning, which in turn, are also interesting.

I suppose there are interesting aspects about me. I have dimples. I have a deviated septum. I'm articulate. I can drink more alcohol than the average person. These might be interesting. Or more so, they might be inches above the average stimuli of positive emotion. That sentence was interesting.

But here is an interesting snippet about me: I wore a body cast up to my armpits from the age of two to three. Yet, I only remember what I’ve seen of that moment in my life from pictures. To fine-tune that statement, I remember the pictures I’ve seen of myself not the year I spent immobile or the way the plaster felt against my skin. I don't remember the year I spent learning to walk after that. I remember a Polaroid I’ve seen of myself.

Photographic memory. I have one of those two. That’s interesting.