Kevin Trent Boswell

storage space

it does not require
very much square footage
to store melancholy

it fits neatly
inside of an eye

discouragement will
fit perfectly
in the bottom
of one shoe,
ennui in the other,

and you’ll still have
wiggle room
for your toes,

as you walk around
no place special,
all by yourself

loneliness doesn’t
take up much space

it fits easily
into a single
empty hand

Foregone Inconclusive Executioner

Not the brightest of men,
I have walked into walls,
Chasing pleasant illusions,
Elusive pleasures

But even I,
Tiny bean brain that I may be,
Have enough sense
To stand back from the flames,
To stay clear of fires that
Rage beyond my control

Red, blustery, passionate,
These rueful waves of the sun
Crackle against the marbled rings
Of Kronos’ cold steel slave rings

The hard master yields nothing easily

I can summon enough sense
To feed myself when my bones
Become brittle with hunger

But I cannot make a meal
Out of the dust and dry reeds
Of another’s feverish pangs

There is no sustenance in another’s
Temporary fits of dissatisfied craving,
The ghoulish haunting caused by
Dwelling in the discontent of
A desiccated shell, which they are
Reluctant to abandon

When war swings its broadsword
At the throat of its enemy with full vigor

And the enemy,
Equally skilled in the art of slaughter,
Parries with a great sword
In just the knick of time,
At a perfect right angle,
There will inevitably come
A clanging sound most awful

Sparks will pour off steel weaponry
Sweat and cruel words will fly,
And the thirst of demons is slaked
With someone’s blood

The only question is, “Who’s blood?”

The answer is always the name of
Someone stupid enough
To stand too close to the fray

Such a someone does not
Keep their name very long

The surgical procedures
Of iron, hatred, and discontent
Removes the name like a tumor,
Placing it in a small wooden box and
Burying it in the yard, like a dead bird,
A former family pet who
Gave up the ghost

Except, that the bird was well-loved, and
Grieved for after its passing

The name of the fool who stands
Between plumes of martial fire
And the incontinence of the unhappy
Is quite unceremoniously
Peeled from the imbecile’s face and
Dropped in a shallow grave
With all the careful consideration
A person observes when tossing
A banana peel into the garbage

A miserly liver of life,
Who cherishes comfort above all else,
Will angrily slit the throat
Of one who offers them a cup of wine,
When the skinflint is busy
Swearing to the deliciousness
Of the sand in their parched throat

A plate of fresh fruit and venison
Is smacked hastily from the hand,
When offered to the prisoner
Who enthusiastically requests
A second helping of gravel and worms

No, it is far wiser to step back

Stay clear of one who is firmly committed
To the cause of consistency,
Merely for convenience’s sake

Let the dice, lightning bolts, and swords
Fall where they may;
So long as it is not upon your neck

Snake

Thin, diamond-eyed weaver
Of rhythmic, pulsating speech
Spells spill from forked, cunning tongue

Whispering secrets that never fade
Of things that are only just out of reach,
Union, knowledge unknown to the young

Ruddy red splatter on the worn blade
Spirit piercing flesh and taking root
Dew sits lightly on the petals of a flower

Serpentine speaker, knower, deceiver,
Thief in waiting to purloin the loot
Beneath the cover of the witching hour

Under Your Feet

Author’s Note: Yesterday, I learned that someone passed away in my apartment building (presumably within a day or so of when I heard about it). I had never met them and they hadn’t been living here long at all. Their death was apparently not unexpected; I was told that they were in poor health before they ever arrived here.

The weird thing is, they lived in the apartment right below mine. But stranger still, I had occupied that apartment myself, up until just a few months ago. When my current unit became available, I took the opportunity to move because it’s quieter on the top floor. While I don’t think I ever met the tenant, it was a brisk reminder that death is never far away.

Death is right under your feet
But try to put it out of your mind
There are chores to do and
Demands to meet
So, try putting it out of your mind

Death is coming up behind you
It is wise to not make a stink of it
Since you cannot stop it, and
There’s nothing you can do,
It’s best to try and not think of it

There beside you, Death hovers
I suggest you pretend not to notice
It will pounce on nervousness,
Any weakness it discovers,
So, just casually appear not to notice

It may approach you from any angle
You are bold, but Death is much bolder
You can tell it’s there by the cold, stale air
That envelopes your throat to strangle
Death patiently perches on your shoulder

thrust

make whatever you like of this,
but know that it may, likewise,
make whatever it likes of you.

thrust and struggle and burn
loudly feign, but ever so quietly,
an attempt, in the corner,
through muted silence, to enunciate

struggle with the reason
why is it that one does so yearn
to take the difficult lesson
one cannot be brought to hate

twist and then don’t,
because of the can’t
and moreover, he will not,
exactly as they were never told

a question, wide-eyed, receives
the penalty of the question’s answer
and it stings, being cold and hot,
enough to make one shriek and pant

a perjured testimony, it will recant
a tortured, and elated dancer
flailing there, on the dance floor,
it joyously thanks and aching, grieves

the hatches all battened down
and lashed to withstand the wind;
the wind begs contritely for more
claims not to know instruction

the end result, ruby red and sore
scoreboard racked and tucked away
nothing else to buck, or smartly say
all done for the night, playing the clown

make it into anything whatsoever,
anything that you want it to be,
for it won’t be made into something
that it isn’t supposed to be already

it has always known what it is, steady
to be whatever he chooses to shape
to make it speak and twist and sing
if only it is able and willing to see

not exactly dire

it’s pressing, I will admit, yes
and it was needed yesterday
however, it can wait,
if you’re short on time

a kiss and formal gesture to bless,
to take all the pain away,
to set everything straight,
and smooth out the rhyme

no one is used to getting
all that they want,
and most certainly not
in this economy

tea leaves, crystals, and bloodletting
a beg and a ruthless taunt
the emperor’s still got
his priests and astronomy

but you and I, the commoner type,
left only with crumbs and the crumble
of entropy and its effect on us
if we wait for it to sort itself out

or loudly, we may boldly gripe
with a roar, or at least a rumble
and let them feel our fuss
and threaten to do more than pout

and then, that which we release,
it falls from memory, and at last,
we clear the debris, and the way
and walk into the here and now

with a little squeeze and some grease,
we can break free and hold fast
and hear everything we have to say,
about the where, the when, and how