Saturday, August 4, 2018

Opening a Vein

I’m filling out thank you cards
to the women
who have cheated on me,
showing my gratitude
for cutting me
so deftly
with that razor blade
and watching me bleed out.
Sliding the cards
into the envelopes
the edge of one
slices my finger
forming a line of blood
below the surface
of the skin.
The irony
is not lost on me
as I scroll eHarmony
looking the next contestant on
this is my life.


Cement Shoes

I don’t have much time,
lie to me
in short sentences
so I can move on,
we both know
I can’t do that,
cement shoes,
lead feet,
I’m here for the duration.



God is trying to tell me something,
I can feel it
in the blood
pumping through
my wobbly heart.
A message is being sent
over waves
I can’t connect to.
I shout into
the empty room
waiting for a booming voice
to crack my skull.

I listen.
I listen.
I look around the room.
I look around the universe
between the points of light
in the velveteen sky.
I look into the mirror.
I close my eyes
to the surrounding everything,
exist only in the quiet moment,
I scream into the gloom.

God is trying to tell me something,
I can feel it
in the twitch
of my angry nerves.
A message is being sent,
something alive and bustling.
It’s here,
under my skin,
asking for a response,
just like it has
a thousand times before.



There was no way out
so I succumbed
to the dreaming,
swallowing angry shards
of disconnection
until I bled away.
No one reached a hand out
until it was too late.
Oh, I came back
from the edge of extinction,
but I wasn’t the same,
never have been.
I’m one more animal in the zoo
pacing my enclosure,
biding my time
before I maul
my handler
and escape to the world again.


The Abrasive Night

I don’t have anything to say
on this enduring night,
residue of past thoughts
tie my neck
to my torso
with ropes of smoke.
If the moon
would talk to me
I’d share an anecdote or two
but the seas
are closed for the evening.
The darkness
wants to be my friend,
the silence
an acquaintance with visiting privileges.
I’m in the mood
for neither
on this unflinching night.
If I cut off a finger
I doubt I could cry out
for help
or blasphemy,
I am the picture of torpor,
down the mine
for a drink of pure finality.
I am lost
to this trenchant, striding,
overarching night.


Christopher Hivner

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...