red pts 1 & 2

the old man stands, barefooted, scraggly and wise
stubborn against a cold front on the peak of his own personal mountain
his earthen colors, rags, matted beard blur with reality’s drabness
his right hand, though, clenched so tightly, fingernails cutting through palm
holding high a pole
affixed to which is a red, red flag
waving in the violent winds
so red it warms the air and makes the clouds blush
he parts chapped, lilac lips
the winds too loud to permit voice
he speaks anyway, both grimacing and smirking
he says but one word
tragedy
tragedy


his eyes flicker like a faulty light
his mouth syncing words that aren’t there anymore
his flag, once telling stories of perverse grandeurs, now serve as a tourniquet for his what-have-you
wrapped tightly against flesh
veins popping with escape on their minds
it’s been a long, long journey, his pains remind him
several decades, lifetimes, worlds
open the table before him lies his last possessions
tattered photographs
a few rare coins, and old Whitman book
a rust coffee can he shoved his emotions into a few whiles ago
he lays down, covers his age in a brown wool blanket
closes his eyes and faces the relieving glory of nothing ahead