Within, The Rose

A. Michael McRandall

Do you remember how 
the colors seemed to
memorize 
the hiding places,
underneath
your bed - 
and falling off the
wagon never hurt, 
as long as it was 
yesterday?
 
It’s really not so
hard to see – 
you just need to 
cast a little light
so,
go ahead,
 
throw the switch
baby.
 
But that’s not how it works
for you – 
the music ran out
well before
the lease,
 
and that’s a shame.
 
Instead you spend 
your days 
folding echoes 
into something 
that might fit
in the top drawer
of your chiffonier;
 
where they will stay,
 
alone
and
under-studied,
 
between your diaphragm,
and Jesus in a box.

From a Brownstone - Looking South

A. Michael McRandall

Johnny was a pilot with a broken wing
but he couldn’t shake the urge to fly,
so he patched it with a triple shot of malt
and wrapped it in a layer of blue velvet,
just prior to departure – 
 
he clipped the fifth floor fire escape
shortly after take-off -  
they never found the black box.
 
I watched him pass my window
and wondered to his destination
then took another hit,
only to realize I’d forgotten how to spell,
cope,
and that Bed-Stuy’s as cold a night
as you’ll find.
 
I need to get back to Katy.
 
A warming strength comes with 
ballast, or at least what passes for it,
and Bear Creek’s been absent
from the rearview since Monica
got that nasty stain on her dress – 
which is totally unrelated, 
but got me thinking nonetheless – 
 
I really have to find my way to Katy.
 
You see, 
I’m looking for that park bench,
the one that tells you that you’re home,
because from there you can smell her
dusty petals,
as she whispers your name 
and turns down the bed.
 
I want to spend the night in Katy…
 
or better yet,
in Savannah…
 
I think her husband’s out of town.

Exhaling at Intervals

A. Michael McRandall

Precipitative memories 
often lose their sheen 
on the way back 
from brunch -  
it’s no wonder 
you’re left feeling 
a little… stunted. 
 
Questions painted 
as a means to quantify, 
really just occur 
to shutter the light,
 
and though 
you called it extra-credit, 
while he hung your panties 
from the rearview mirror, 
you still couldn’t graduate 
with honors.

Self-Regulated Dosing

A. Michael McRandall

I take my coffee black,
with just a little Vicodin
in lieu of sugar, 
and sometimes the news
instead of toast.

Saw my picture on the front page - 
or maybe
it was just someone who thought
they were me, 
but I can’t imagine
why they would want to – 

then noticed that
the answers had come 
in colors, 
and much earlier than 
expected - 
though I was surprised
they found their way,
with it being so
foggy and all – 

which, in turn,
led me to
conclusions - 
or what might pass
for them in a prepared
environment – 

and I was struck with the
somewhat veiled realization 
that - 

no one can see my eyes - 

because if they could,
they’d know what happened
to their dreams,

and I’d never have to watch
another rose die,

waiting on me to bring the rain.

Barely Missing Virtue

A. Michael McRandall

 
Kind of fell into conversation 
with a man in town – 
actually rather one-sided 
but that’s neither here nor there – 
and it made me think.  
 
You see, he apparently 
had made the choice 
to lead a very noble charge  
and build a haven 
for wayward youth - 
with a christian bent 
painted in beatitudes –
so he was soliciting almsgivers, 
if you will. 
 
As he sculpted
his address on the qualities
of beneficence, 
I, in turn,  wandered off 
into some sort of abstract reverie, 
all the while 
under the innate realization that 
this was indeed a man 
worthy of respect 
and even, admiration, 
were I of that ilk. 
 
But being as I am, 
most miserably, 
who I am – 
in the midst of all this sanctity – 
it struck me…
 
I think 
 
I fucked his wife 
last week.