Cody Crossland

After Her, The Deluge

she was a beacon in starless night
black as death, the sky weeping,
tearing its flesh.

I was a cyclone.

rampaging vortex,

marauding across landscapes

of the fragile world.

the choice was hers alone,
to take me by the hand,
why she did,
I may never know.

long afternoon summer
found us tangled in sheets,
lips scavenging sweat for secret
yesses.

nights spent dancing
among electric cowboys,
while I fell like rain
over her charm.

she could not rope the wind
nor tame my wicked heart.
the sound of the shutting door
a thunderclap in my soul.

the levee groans against itself,
the reaping hour come round.
I sit in cigarette smoke nights,
stale poison rotting the glass,
muttering, “Play it again, Sam.”
to no one in particular.

Superman is Crying
when I see a leaf blow
in the wind,
I think of you
my friend.

tearing across eternal hunting grounds,
wild eyed and shuddering,
face bent forward
to what lay before you.

once we stood colossal
in plaything world,
walking through our myth
like two bit supermen

now you sleep
beneath the snakes,
sunday best suit,
cloaking your bones.
worms have had their fill.

as trees shed burdens
in windblown world
I watch this leaf
rush to meet you
at the banks of the river Styx.

tears won’t quit me now.

End of Night

Here I sit,
holy morning voyeur
in windblown West Texas world.

Barren,
mesquite choked pasture
harbor iron monstrosities,
rocking steady at twilight,
groaning,
as they suck life blood
from the belly of the Earth.

The sun crests the horizon,
darkness flees,
allowing dawn her moment
in virgin day.

It is the end of night,
the myth of the American night.
Azure waves roll
across pale sky,
swirls of purple and gold,
whisper,
“All time is borrowed.”

All about town,
men rise,
weary,
ready themselves
for the workaday world
of heat and sweat,
turning wrenches,
clanging metal.

Longing for 5 o’clock
smiles
of their women.
sweet sounds of laughing

children
Sips of ice cold beer
to salvage the day.

Night comes
like a thief.
the realization
that another selfsame day
draws near.

I stumble headlong,
wine stained mouth,
drunk
as a waltzing
pissant,
on the heels of revenant visions,
derelict specters,
that say,
“Go on boy,
go thou this way,
seek and you will find.”

But the bottles are bled dry now,
usless as paperweights,
when once they held
such promise.

The sun rises lazily in the east,
The great world continues to spin.
A lonesome wolf howls,
in mourning.

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