Brian D. Hardy 

Vision of Calvary

last night i dreamt about the end of the world --

or maybe it was just the end of me;

misshapen black trapezoids,

as big as cars -- meteors --

they hurled through the sky

and they did not burn

because the earth's atmosphere

had lost its confidence.

low impedance microphones recorded the sound of

impact...

i rushed to see the fallen object from the

farthest

corner of the universe, before the earth. i looked

down at the broken rock and picking it up,

it resembled a rainbow, soft as water in my hands.

i searched for a meaning in its runes,

but its ruse foretold the third antichrist.

the bearded face of the Internet would make us

think we were more than we really are.

my life had become a toy that i dragged

behind me, over rough ground.

the toy kept flipping over on its side,

as the priest drove the tractor,

we were all fleeing genocide.

i saw my boyhood friend hanging lifeless

in a closet and still the voice continued to beckon

me:

read on.

i couldn't understand the words

and our numbers were diminishing;

the end result was inevitable:

one zero.

a binary revelation that i cannot shake.

my fever is now increasing as the entire

memory of last night

is evaporating.

an ill-begotten thief-child on the cross

tells me,

life is simply backwards and to understand the

destination

you must begin at the end,

you must be born dead.

when i awoke

i opened the window and it was

night, leaves were blowing in my window,

the last reminder of our Fall.

black soot was on my feet.

had i been to Calvary?

Across the Street

yesterday, i realized that

directly across the street from

my third floor apartment,

down somewhere in the basement,

there are sleeping souls, slowly seeping

out of their casement --

as i pen these thoughts,

my only working light flickers

its light onto my words,

giving every one a sense

of this darkness.

to my right i find another stolen treasure

stolen in drunken splendor,

it resembles a wizard's cap,

the color of fading sunrise --

no uncertain beams kiss it;

its chosen word, written in a notebook,

in black ink, on ugly yellow paper,

is funeral.

it was then i remembered

the funeral home across the street

always reproving me in silent speech

for stealing that parking pylon

to decorate my darkened room.

so fine

(ode to amy)

saturday morning -- a knock on my door,

your trembling voice on the phone,

i didn't know what to say, nor,

did i ever think you'd be alone.

your eyes were two willow trees,

my heart falling to its knees,

you never thought he'd really leave,

so emotionally diseased.

and still the gyre turns,

burning eternally in denial,

your hands, infant ferns,

that refuse to conspire.

your strength was fire,

that grew and inspired,

defying the liars,

of which you've tired.

now you're unsure of the future,

and all it might present,

your heart needs a suture,

until it can mend.

as i walk through gardens,

feeling the bends,

you'll never comprehend,

how your smile wakes the dead.

the city is illuminated,

i ask why,

everything stops,

when you cry.

and here i sit,

penning my thoughts,

not a single bit,

regretting these wants.

so, my valentine,

i'd rather drink turpentine,

than see you denied,

of a song so fine.