Cry For Futile Evening Song

There is no such victory.
If there is
it wears a grave.
On your way to the parking lot
of the growing belly.
Comrade's suicide mission postponed growth
for the sake of long strands of obscure hair.
The suicide mission - a leaf of absence.
Absent like the hooded mechanics
working red light movement
and later growing fat
from eating forbiddens.
Before we confirm our cemetery,
Before we go,
Let's not say a prayer.
Have no faith.
No amen.
There will be a death mask
to make the exit
    light terribly.

Suddenly, There

came frolicking a light
into an opened mouth for hospice

there was nothing to begin with
the siamese eye sat and did nothing for hours
to excite flammable brooding

wingspan of air touched
something in the mooning about
insisting on circling the street
to question the scent of new auras

go paper moon song
throughout the cannibal psyche for leisure

an upsetting fume holds a sanity
in hands birthing yodels

the widow sits on the green leather rocking chair
to contemplate a new series of glass tables

above hear the meshed arrivals

have an avocado on the bed
to pray for the cleaning odors

tired circles, the open space
on whining floors, pleading

what is this monstrosity loitering
trenches built with their own second hands
where is it on the corner of peripheral deceit
and momentary bouts of spiritualism
let it out, let it out to dry

Louis Bardales is a poet and musician from Chicago, Illinois where he attended Columbia College as an undergrad. He currently works at Chicago's Old Town School Of Folk Music and writes poetry and songs in both Spanish and English. His work has appeared in Columbia Poetry Review, Phantom Limb, and is forthcoming in Pinwheel. Find him at

© Ira Joel Haber

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