Memories of the Son

I remember the sun-

its light of a thousand moments,

all vying for their fifteen minutes.

Scratching at the sorrow of another yesterday

while shivering up to a dumpster-

society’s leftovers;

served up on a concrete platter.


I remember her eyes.

Electric spheres of blue

rising over an imperfect smile-

the smoking gun clenched between her fingers.

My messiah with a blank stare,

scarred, crucified veins.


I remember cold steel in a Florida June

locked against shivering bone-

rubbing my wrists raw

And the impending sense a rabbit must experience

before the fox snaps its jaws.


I remember the tempest which followed, and the

emptiness left in its wake-

The sour, bleached air washed over

its patina of mildew and

wild testosterone.


I remember the days becoming indiscernible from night

as we digested deep within the concrete bowels, roiling and

stripped from our individuality, learning to embrace

a new social security- we are all animals at our core; and


I remember the cold, black winds of January

piercing my soul like an ever-present Gall-

until the fleeting warmth of day

became a fading memory of the sun.

—-Jonathan Renfield


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