There are vaults
filled and pressing like lovers
against floorboard din.
Within are stories and letters,
plans and apologies,
blue-black ink like veins
that drip solemnly,
remnants of memory with tangible life.
The despair seems sweet
in the recesses.
You may have been bought and sold
and had your eyes blackened,
but the receipt is still valid
and the drive-train will hold out
before the warranty passes away.
We are all radiant figures
and living martyrs,
act like gods in front of a firing line.
There are boxes
bursting at the seams and glowing like a fever
against what’s left of the carpet
worn and giving in to hospitality.
Within are love poems and the pens that birthed them,
check stubs and proofs of purchase.
They are road signs,
bad directions from a stranger
and we follow with an honest grin
and pocket change burning holes.
I think they may have just given Butch the title and told him to go nuts with this one. And in true Butch fashion, he went nuts very quietly. Not his best (that's coming up), but I kinda like this one.