Spilling Ink
caught in moments
we theorize new reflections
arithmetic in strange places
empty subway stations
and park benches
strangers collide in ever-
limbo spaces, for never
do you know the next
encountering that changes
faces
time un-thought will
likely reach you, each
echoed beat and pulse
vibration, rattling like
the rattled station
and thoughts un-certain
will probably break you
but passing lives will
make you stop and softly
laugh and cough and think
and who we were will in
that moment, mingle
as if spilling ink.
Immortal Moth
a daring V
a twitching silhouette
draped like Halloween cobweb in
lines too invisible to comprehend
a minute, then cacophony of
hoping
valiant, triumphant this
naïveté
unfettered by the fears that chain
circumstance to mortality.
Brushed clouds, like clotted cream
unpasteurized, provide soliloquy to
this impressionist scene
somber joy framed by dusk and sky
and trees
the foreground: moth, finally learning how to die
no tears, just knowing that behind
are butterflies.
Old Timber
clock ticks into day grown cold
old timber sings inside the lull
pulled by thoughts and things unseen
alone with aging memories.
the staircase circles candlelight
an iron pendulum clock keeps time
perpendicular parallels intertwine
like cords of shredded fishing line.
on balcony a girl in white,
drunk, darts her head like clock ticks time
and warm and comforted she seems
in feeling what the fireplace brings.
it darts and dares your eyes to weep
or scream but never both, you reaped
your choice like words reap written wrongs
your miles wail like country songs.
and in the corner a piano pings
its umber cadence harmonizing
with the wood and the warmth and
the girl who, like the clockwork, sings.
she echoes through the empty hall
a timing ticked inside us all
its passage calls in chains above
the room, the way old timber does.
Unsatisfied
I have to screw my head back on
it’s grown unkempt tonight
it rushes like water from a
bleeding fountain and bristles
like crabgrass getting ready
for a fight.
the minutemen parade inside
a pessimistic blight
a painful deep thrombosis pulls
and pushes like a tug-of-war
and complicates what it means
to be right.
for sanity comes surgically
like diamond ember lines
a twisted belief that raps at
your window like a pregnant
mosquito drawn towards peeling
empty light.
but I have to screw my head back
on, and screw back on my sight
it falls like leaves so red and
crisp and rattles just like
skeletons whose heads are screwed
too tight.
K.C. Bryce Fitzgerald has been writing stories since he learned to read. A native of Los Angeles, he is inspired by the daily truths of the world around him. Currently unpublished, he is hard at work on a debut novel, countless short stories, a book of poetry, and several screenplays.
