"The desert bears only a scathing sun, and nothing more."
"What about mirages?"

Sunday, December 6, 2015

The High Level Bridge.

I may fall into deeper waters still.
150 feet up it looks soft and inviting,
even during a murky December night.
I've heard whispers of what happens
to the high level bridgers:
They say inertia stops your outside body on impact,
but your organs keep moving,
thrashing around and tearing
themselves apart.
It's blunt trauma.
It's ribcages busting.
It's aorta and lungs and veins and arteries all ripping under too much pressure.
the high level bridgers must have felt
that there would be some relief in that;
the few seconds of debilitating
would be worth not having to spend another moment
in this fucked up world.

- - -

It's been almost a year since my friend passed away. I've been missing him more than usual. I wish that I had been a better friend to him, that I could have helped him in some way. I wish he was still around so that I could talk to him now, I need his guidance.


  1. JB, you leave, you don't call, now you come marching through the door...the supper I made is long cold and I'm sitting here alone in the dark like a jerk.

    This poem exemplifies why you have a gift for putting words to the pictures and thoughts in your mind that create such an intense feeling. From one songwriter to another, I'm glad you came back.


"Write with our backs to the wind and our faces to the hard, bleaching sun."