SUDDEN LIGHT

I slept
in my clothes
again

last night. Those stubborn
buttons were beyond
my dying

fingers. No energy to
unzip my pants, take off
a shoe.

The stark sun
stabs my exhausted eyes
each morning.

Shrill
street sirens startle
my numb mouth open:

A long silent scream,
in a deaf man's
nightmare.

Under the heavy covers
I try to shut out
the world

until I'm somehow able
to rise again. Maybe
Jesus

will come to me
during this suffocating
darkness

and take my soiled hand.
He will pull me out of this
deep black hole

and guide me towards that
sudden light. His sweet
and gentle hands will

bless my blind
eyes open
and make my

body pure. He will wash
away the decay
and deadly fear

with his unearthly love. He
will make the sullen worms
forgive my fallen flesh.

He will throw out the mouldering
shroud. He will sing me
wide awake until

I'm wearing something
white and waltzing in the
sun. He will carry my heavy

burden and stand beside me,
as I laugh and dance on
my own empty grave.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

GUILD, 3 A.M.

The twinkling
yellow and white
lights

of the marquee
are done. The
money's made.

Nothing but black-
ness, and a persistent
wind

entering my sleeping
bag as I try to
catch

a couple more hours
of sleep
before

sunrise and the
sudden return
of

people rushing past
me and the
averted eyes

of The City:
more partial to
celluloid tragedies

and a smart cafe after
than a poor old man
sleeping at their feet.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

BEWARE THE ONES THAT CALL YOU “DEAR”

("Karma's a bitch." - MY NAME IS EARL)

Beware the ones that call you "Dear"
and whisper Shakespeare in your ear.

They'll talk about you when your head is turned:
"A witch from Salem - to be burned."

They'll give you gifts because you're poor:
then steal your time and beg for more.

They'll praise with words not from the heart:
Because telling lies is such an art.

And when you dare to tell them "No."
A living Hell's the debt you'll owe.

Remember Iago - spreading lies:
like a tumor until someone dies.

Men in masks of painted gold:
Making sure the truth's untold.

And they whispered Shakespeare in your ear:
Beware the ones that call you "Dear."

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

FOR ANOTHER MARY

If I seemed cold and casual
during our last minutes -
let me say I am sorry.

But I was already numb by the
news and the nails. So I took
the easy way out -

and did not bother to say what
mattered most: You wanted me
to live while so many wished for

my early death. And I could no
longer figure out the bad from
the good. But I still said my

prayers each night. And hoped
Jesus or Mother Mary might
prove the worldly ones

wrong. And you held my hand
during that dark journey
until the good news came.

And I will always love you for that.

Poem © 2011 by Dylan Mitchell

WHO KILLED SUPERMAN?

The brave man in the
sky was supposed to
stand for America:

Any small town boy
could grow up
and become a hero

just like Superman.
Just lose the glasses,
turn a bright red

table cloth into a
cape. Nab a couple
of bad guys as they

almost get away with
some poor old lady's
purse, and you'd be

up in the big blue sky
before you can say:
God Bless America!

It made so much sense
in the movies. The bad
guys always got caught,

and Superman was
always up there just
watching and waiting

to swoop down and save
America before it's too
late: No dead Kennedys.

No Vietnam. No Nixon
giving us the peace sign.
No Ronald Reagan

pretending to have a
ticking heart. No World
Trade Center. No

George W. Bush hiding
the truth, and blaming the
poor for his own deliberate

mistakes. Just an honest to
God hero always up there
to save America again

and again. Until the beautiful
dream somehow became
crippled and corrupt. And

the best man always loses now.
Our heroes are hunted,
and they fall from the sky

like slaughtered eagles.
America, America:
Who killed Superman?

He was the last one. He was
our only chance. And now
he has a bullet in his head.

From sea to shining sea.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell