Tracing Emptiness

Release trepidation

when crossing


wooden beams

spaced three feet apart

at the rusty

trestle bridging nowhere to never-ending

nowhere, in the small town I grew up in

next to the now abandoned city of my father,

at the site of a childhood

beating by an older boy with a 2 x 4.


Was it by chance that the nails protruding from the wood

were bent? Was it strange how I noticed, while raising

my bloodied hands in defense, how his weapon

matched the setting?


Years later,

the same splinters

tore through love

and fatherly flesh

via PCP disguised as weed.

7 replies on “Tracing Emptiness”

That actually reminds me of a poem Bukowski wrote about being down and out in Philly, where he got his ass kicked and trash dumped on him, and then he had some kind of hallucination where he saw himself/someone else stumbling around with their eye hanging out of their socket.

Got home,read this fifteen minutes after you wrote it. Not a bad way to replace emptiness.It reminds me of a very late Hemingway piece that was published in Esquire, a description of a horrible street fight in a Western town. Does anyone else know which piece I’m speaking of? Alexander Marshall

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