Tag Archives: Brendon Behlke

14 Wilkins St.

Brooding, it sits like a cataract in the eye,
        Invasive, meddlesome and menacing.
              Best burn the whole thing  down,
                      and search for fruit in the ashes.

The foundation – the roof,
          from root, to stem, to outstretched leaves,
                every soul that has crossed that threshold
                        is now tainted with corruption.

Some say the darkness grew there.
        Quiet like a mold you see but hide in shadow,
                not looking long enough to acknowledge
                      until it is the shadow, the texture of the walls.

Those who were alive when it was made;
          gestated, and labored over, know,
                it was built wrong from the start.
                        From the first nail in the first beam.

Neighbors windows opened like center stage
          on the day they broke ground.
                The audience loyal to the production
                      if only to see what, if anything, grew.

While the crew toiled to bring the place to life,
            they fell ill to the architecture;
                  the very design, a plague on the mind
                        caking them with madness.

They’d take it home and build it there.
            Unspeakable extensions
                  to the horror on Wilkins Street,
                          but return all the same.

Visit those horrors again,
              or have them visited upon them,
                    until all their souls were lost,
                          though not a one found dead.

The teeth of that house have dulled with generations,
              yet it still consumes from the inside,
                    scraping against the skin;
                        agonizing over the organs.

While all of Wilkins Street is shaped by its pull;
            those bright colors and picket fences,
                    dragged by that darker space
                          to a place where no light can escape.

Vagabond

Nostalgia is a weary hat in a lost town.
It speaks soberly of altered states,
and doesn’t belong there,
                              but it did-

                                           it did.

The brim is warped leather,
      the crown, sulking against the skull beneath,
with deep canals born of frowns and smiles
          indiscernible from those that rest

                                             on the shoulders

                of endless hours that bridge the days,
          swallow the years
and sever the link to innocence.

          It is a native-born traveler,
  returning as family,
but with the wear of life upon it,
            like a refugee denied asylum,
                                        home again
                a stranger in a strange land.

Love, Always

I would live forever
      if you would forever live too,
    seeking no end-
            only beginnings.

I would gladly see the world out,
  if when the lights dimmed,
        the quiet settled in,
  you too remained for me to settle into;
        find pale dreams between living.

I would suffer until it became white noise
    as long as our symphony remained
        rising above the audience of our years,
            humbled into silent admiration.

I would disappear-
        fade to nothing,
            if anything didn’t include you,
                    us,
                        this.

Strange

You’re here.
            That’s your first mistake.

You’re not at church.
You’re not at work.

                Not watching the latest marvel movie
                at a bar, a game, the gym
                anywhere else.

                For whatever reason

                                     you are here.

                                     Let me tell you what that
                              means.

You could be in church,

       stale robes screaming!
              about how unworthy YOU are
                                                                  perfection
                                        the only currency
                            of any value other than
                                                          your wallet.

You could be at work,
        for five cents on the dollar;
            some worth there at least…

                  not much though.
      So you’re here.
                                You’re here. Okay,
but you could be at the movies!

Some ubermensch sees the world ending,
      finds himself, his friends and stops it.

All the action! The machismo!
                The heroics!

The good guys… always… winning…

                         Yet
                                you’re here, where they often…
                    just fucking don’t.

I get it,
        but you could be out on the town,

submerged in whatever works
    to blur the world as it is.
          A backwards magic eye painting,
            that makes more sense
                              distorted,
                    digestible even.

Is it too early? Too late?
          Whatever-
                            You’re here.

Not at a game, a jersey on,
        screaming at the top of your lungs
                about how worthy your boys are-
              (not theirs, never theirs)
      You could be there,

But that’s,
                that’s a lot;
        so you’re here.

You’re not at the gym,
          living the nightmare to reach the dream
                of immortality.
      Some absolute unit telling you you’re doing great,
                    you’re almost there,
                        just one more,
                        just one more,
                        just one more,
                        just one more.
You’re here.

                     By choice.

     Vulnerable but celebrated,
              knowing the good guys, ladies
                            and everyone
                                    in between
                                            or beyond;

                      they lose, and lose and lose –
        but they get back up, they show up.
                    Not paid to be here,
                              still
                                                    finding value.

               Staring the world down,
                  seeing it for what it is,
                                  unflinching,
                and finding worth in every corner,
                            every shadowed table
                      every wilted head.

You’re here
and that’s enough.

Being here is a mistake
          a mutation
      an evolution.

But be here.
      Be strange.
          Be loved.

Ocean Breeze

Pulling from somewhere off the coast, where suns set,
the taste of salt, sand, and shadow;
a whispered heartbeat from the ocean floor
beckons me with ancient sounds.
The crest of a furled mystery that awakens
a need in me, aching for those depths.

To be but water made conscious, drowning
but no desire for the surface or sky.
Even before the shore my breath was stolen,
though I would gladly have given my last,
to be the current that moves through you,
yet a part of you in kind.

Exuberance!
Enough to carry me to the unknowing,
but the wanting to know,
to discover peace among the motions,
rise in celebration,
and fall again as rain laughing into the waves.

Laughing until out of breath,
sinking beneath your ocean to swim forever.

Reverie

I am content in the sunlight
a thousand blank pages waiting
but without any cause to fight,
for my attention. Not needing;
necessity is self-defeating;
but there- available all the same.
The time left us is only wanting,
this life having finally been tamed.

The day drifts away but it is still bright,
a lifetime of mournful shadows fading
behind a long legacy of delight;
decades of fruitful creating,
the love of those that are liberating,
curiosity like an open flame
from fire to fire, always leaping.
Never quiet is my soul’s refrain.

Overtime

With the coffee that they like,
shaved off the bean like chocolate moose;
a foggy night of swirls rolling off the spoon.
That kind of early.

I need to be there.

People will remember if I’m not,
hold it against me, resent me.

How do I barricade my home office?
It’s a bedroom, no need to barricade.
                                  Supposedly.

Just need food and drink for two,
so when they come for me,
            [They will come – are coming]
                    we’ll live!

          Better than we did when we had to work
all the time,
                  coming in early.

Is a locked door enough to hold them off;
    the door between the day and night,
                      between dreams and reality,
                                  between consciousnesses?

                      I hope so.
                      I hope so.
                I don’t want to die like this,
          early.