A King and his Stone

The Sword withdrawn from the Stone.

It was December the 28th when Arthur returned to Earth

in a less than prophetic fashion.

He landed on a park bench in Cambridge, Massachusetts

atop clattering armor and cracked his crown.

“Goddamnit,” he screamed to the heavens before he reached behind himself

and withdrew Excalibur from in between two of his vertebrae.

My Love and I were holding coffee cups, empty except for the change

we had yet to be given.

He dropped his sword to the ground and took a minute to stretch

before he noticed our presence.

“Is this England?” he asked. “Have I returned to the land built in the blood of words?”

I shook my head. “Afraid you were misled,” I said.

“This is New England.”

Arthur began to laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh away the metal

plated about his being,

until every piece had fallen to the bricks beneath our feet,

until the blood coating Excalibur had seeped deep

into the cracks and crevices carving the world beneath his toes,

leaving his body and blade naked and pale in the winter wind.

He laughed until his voice was the wind and the wind fell silent.

His smile inverted into a history written by the losers,

who could’ve won in the first place.

My Love gave him a hug to protect him from the icy cold

while I stubbornly clutched my empty cup of coffee.

“I shall start again,” Arthur said with bitter resignation.

“For this land is no different from any I’ve seen,

be it the mist of death or fantasy.”

I looked at his sword lying impotent on the frozen ground beneath our feet

before handing Arthur the empty cup of coffee.

He nodded his approval and clothed himself in its cardboard

before hoisting Excalibur above his head and stabbing the moon with its point.

His blood bled back from under the bricks,

pooling about his toes then knees then stomach then breast then throat then hands

becoming the scabbard around his righteous blade.

My Love wisely stepped away from his empty frame,

as Arthur lowered Excalibur’s point toward his stomach and stabbed it through,

the blood scabbard sliding back home between its vertebrae.

“Goddamnit!” he shouted again.  “That smarts like a son of a bitch.”

He turned to My Love and me, our hands empty of empty cups of coffee.

With cardboard armor and his crown broken on the street

the once and future King stood up straight and said,

“Now, to get something warm to drink.”

Marijuana Pt. 1 & 2

Pt. 1

Arthur was very poor.

He did not hold any key to financial success,

just a combination lock

with twenty numbers.

This habitat suited Arthur’s hallucinogenic ambitions.

He required marijuana

like an angel,

wings;

a volcano,

magma.

To raise funds for his lifestyle,

he’d stand on street corners

reciting poetry.

Until even the trees

lifted their roots to leave.

Until the continents

pushed away from the sea.

I remember seeing him

at 3 a.m. one morning,

standing on the public garden bridge.

He cooed phrase repetition

to the pigeons roosting

in the trees departing.

“Saint Peter,

He knew me well

Shook my hand

and said, ‘Son,

go to hell.’”

 

Pt. 2

A wino beneath the bridge

applauded.

Beautiful Patio of the Universe

Arthur sat smoking cigarettes,

exhaling blue ink clouds

on a three dimensional globe made of gold.

The breeze flew in like Jesus.

The bricks swept clean by the messiah

as he saved the lost leaves

scattered across the terrace.

Arthur searched in vain

for a trashcan,

or bush, or mammal

to give an empty pack of American Spirits.

There was nothing but the heavenly air,

caressing the beautiful patio of the universe.

Rain

A boisterous sky

spat rain

at Arthur and I.

We huddled close

beneath a pink

Carebear umbrella.

It was two dollars

at the store

and two dollars

was all we had stored.

Arthur stared up

at the menagerie

of our purchase.

“Doesn’t one of these fucking things,

make the rain go away?”

Nautilus Down

Mr. Velvetears

Mr. Velvetears sounds so soft

you hardly ever hear

the shuffle of his feet

at the top of the stairs.

Always afraid of heights,

he refuses to come down

until the shaking subsides

and his feet stop stomping.

I wait patiently below

smiling at his stammer.

“It’s ok,” Arthur says beside me.

He’s right, I think,

it is.

 

Financial Feed

My love and I were deep in the cobbles of Cambridge,

when a tragedy befell.

A row of rogue ATM’s swallowed her debit card

and digested her account.

She called the bank to complain.

“Sorry,” was all they said.

“It’s the only way to keep them fed.”

i blame it on the media.

Race

In the subway tunnels and platforms, one hundred feet

beneath the earth,

Arthur raced a three hundred-year-old man to the final bench

untouched by creature.

If it wasn’t for the blood-spurting shirt the ancient was wearing,

Arthur would have won.

“A shame,” the old man said once he was quite comfortably seated.

“I’ve got more practice.”

light fights back

The Largest Margarita Ever Made

A storm of tremendous proportions

on par with a sprinkler seeking vengeance

caught My Love and I on a stroll.

The two of us laughed at the drenching

and smoked damp cigarettes,

throwing away dripping filters.

The storm escalated its intensity

Mangling our hair with its ferocity

My Love and I.

We picked a bar nearest to dry

And ordered the largest margarita

ever made for this world.

The waiter fearing for his life

quit the job for personal reasons,

only to die on the sidewalk begging for a drink.

The bartender agreed to the task

made one larger than a second,

but smaller than a year.

My Love and I swam in its tequila tides

Sprawled on its salt sand beaches,

until Arthur walked by outside.

He looked in the window

at our bare bodies bathing in tequila velvet

and shook off the clouds in the sky.

The sun poured into our inebriated sea.

My Love and me?

We toweled off with a pack of dry cigarettes.

Arthur stood sober still and spoke

of the thousand bones buried beneath

the bookstores of Mass Ave.

I shushed him like a stamped out smoke

preferring to remember the margarita,

instead.

Boston Public Library

Hide and Seek

Arthur and I played a game of hide and seek.

I found him three years, two months, and one day later,

bundled under the covers of my bed

counting aloud “1, 7, 9, 5, 2, 6, 8, 4, 3-”

he paused and looked at me.

“You were supposed to come to bed.”

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