I met him on the corner of Second and Main
One afternoon, walking home from nowhere.
He stood so still, I tried not to stare.
Benjamin Knight, military sniper, code-name Reaper.
In his voice I heard dark rooms filled with secret deserts
And the sound of bones breaking from
The mercenary desolation of subsisting.
But in his eyes I saw the shadows, darker than any nightmare,
Splinter around the dreams he keeps locked away.
White crayon on white paper,
Seems pointless doesn’t it;
Little more than a place holder.
But open up a new box of 24
Crayola crayons to find that tip broken
And the whole box feels used.
From across the room I can see the wheels turning behind your eyes
And my pulse quickens.
As you sidle up to the bar I watch your eyes make a quick study up and down
And I wonder if you are measuring in Celsius, Fahrenheit, or Kelvin.
From the Windsor knot to the Oxfords
You project a crisp clean vernacular;
No urban dictionary here.
Leaving the Velveeta pickup lines to the frat boys in the corner
Your introduction is simple and smooth.
I take a sip of the large glass of cosmology you order, with a lime wedge for garnish,
I hate to admit that some days I think I’m invisible.
At my core I’m introverted and admittedly
Sometimes I come across as anti-social;
But what else am I to think
When even my imaginary friends
Stop talking to me?
Numb: adjective, deprived of feeling or responsiveness.
I never understood why they told me that numb was good;
That it would help me heal.
Numb is never the absence of feeling.
Numb is the condom that would keep me clean but you refuse to wear.
Job done you tell me goodbye means forever.
Six hours later I am still counting the aggregate in the asphalt between my knees.
Road rash hurts right? I don’t feel it.
I don’t feel anything.
That’s not quite true.
642 Poems and More 