place of rest by DB Cox

—for Matt T. (September 30th, 1981 – November 13th, 2010)

here is where we cry the night’s soulless cold
here is the solitary light moving across the sky
from one dark space to another
here is the wanderer confused by the journey
searching for his way home
here is the body too fragile for this world
-eyes that saw too much
-mind that ran too deep
-stilled heart that could not be filled

and here we are—
left to guess
about a split-second in time
only he could see

i choose to imagine a cloud of beautiful colors
rising in the darkness—
orange fading to sapphire-blue
painting the heavens an impossible hue—
a burning red point
moving over a sharp silver line
that cuts between
meaningless human noise
and perfect solitude

that place of rest
he has been seeking

there—by the morning star

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an american play (in three scenes) by DB Cox

Scene 1.

friday-night party—
cisco rediscovers
old rage
from old places
& cuts down his brother
with a cheap lock-blade
he bought
from a display case
at the “qwik-mart”
nothing could stop
the startled kid
from bleeding out
right there
on the dance floor
under the twisted
crepe paper
& red balloons

Scene 2.

thirty days
back from iraq
stretched
past the point
where hope breaks—
jeffrey
shadowed
in the light
of a 40-watt bulb
blows out his brains
easy as a candle
& drops naked
to the cellar floor—
no one
not his mother
not his father
not his friends
had noticed
the night in his eyes

Scene 3.
Kansas. May 2009. A “born again” religious fanatic named Scott Roeder is minutes away from killing an abortion doctor named George Tiller while the Dr. is attending a Sunday-morning church service.

face-up—eyes closed
arms outstretched
to either side
of a king-size bed—
a copy of gideon’s bible
rides up & down
on the chest
of a soldier
in the “army of god”—
marking time
on a cross of the mind
in a cheap wichita motel—
the plan is clear
everything he wants to say
reduced
to a single blinding point

a righteous warning message
to lost sinners

a technicolor caution sign
to would-be baby killers

a .22 caliber declaration
from a holy nowhere man
to a doctor
who hides
behind gated walls
& immoral laws
that cannot save him

almost time to go
lock & load
short drive up the road
to the imaginary
sunday-morning
sanctuary

church bells toll

lost in altruistic dreams
the depraved savior
quietly sings a slaying song

“onward christian soldiers
marching as to war
with the cross of jesus
going on before…”

Epilogue.

someday
i’m gonna leave this place
where everything
is broken—
fuck all of these
weary musings
on the human state—
i’ll move
back in the woods
down by the river
live in a tree
start a devolution
roll back in time
to ooze & slime
before
the fateful lightning strike
ignited this crazy blaze
down a dead-end road

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spaces by DB Cox

you traded
your cabaret card
for some pusher’s
idea of paradise
& now you’re standing
outside a club on 52nd street
the rain beating
a philly-joe solo
on the brim of your fedora
can’t even get your foot
in the door of the jazz joint
they named for you
bird
the man
who could glide over
chorus after chorus
smooth, sure, & fast
as your little sister’s ass
& never
run out of things to say
bird
“liberator of paris”
“king of bebop”
gets another
royal welcome home
so what now
the jazz clubs
are being replaced
with strip dives
& they’re playing rock & roll
over at the paramount
claiming bop’s
an outline of the past
a graveyard ghost—
but you
can come with me
if you wanna go
to kansas city
maybe
find a new way
hidden
in that pure space
between notes—
tiny pieces
of perception
shiny as quicksilver
waiting
to be discovered
like lost money
in an old coat pocket

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his heart knows the way by DB Cox

— for R.L. Burnside (Bluesman 1926-2005)

standing
in front of a soundless band
dressed
in a blinding-white suit
a delta angel’s
guitar speaks—
a timeless language
no longer spoken
by common man—
an indigo solo
in free-time
unencumbered
by meter—
an uncluttered
country road
to a secret destination
the congregation
moves in sync
with the non-beat
intending
to ride the bus
to the end of the line—
the guitar-man
sways in place
eyes closed
driving blind
no need
for highway signs
his north mississippi heart
knows the way

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home by christmas by DB COX

hey you—
writer of shadow work
& simple rhymes
living in a shabby motel
on a blue highway
chain smoking
stroking stitch marks
in old wrist scars—
has solitaire
turned your character
to stone
are your sanity markers
scattered
like vandalized headstones
in an abandoned cemetery
are you down
to scribbling
mama—love—god
on restroom walls
no longer
a part of the picture
do you count
ceiling cracks
while you track
the number of times
you lied
about sliding back

well—
maybe your parts
are just in backward
light—where dark should be
dark—where light should be
we have everything
you could ever want
right here
you can cry here
or die here
after all has been
said & unsaid
done & undone
forgiven & unforgiven
we can help you
beautify
your personal landscape
have you
in a custom picked place
before the sun goes down
detoxed & flown
back home
by christmas
just sign here —
on the dotted line
for your one hour
sunday night
prime-time intervention

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psychedelic redneck by DB Cox

aging without grace
wearing his hat
pulled low over one eye
splitting the world in half
maintaining his spot
on the statistical fringe
fiddle-fucking with the envelope
of the psychiatric bell curve
pondering his lost investment
in paradise
old lies falling away
with every day that passes
caught between
walls of sameness
a whiskey wilderness
inhabited by
alcoholics
blood-bank whores
would-be motorcycle misfits
lonely war veterans
replaying tales
of rockets red glare
bombs bursting in air
& one graying blues man
loitering in the shadows
reeling under the weight
of too much input
looking for the hush
at the center
of the honky tonk universe

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puzzle box by DB Cox

again
it might be night
& it is
drunk here
in this room
too small to contain
my loneliness
mind gray
& vacant
searching the solitude
for clues
that might unlock
this chinese
fucking puzzle box
slow movement forward
through another day
nothing left to say
that doesn’t sound
like nonsense
quiet anguish
as my imaginary
rushmore crumbles
& falls away
replaying
your phone message
but i don’t hear
what you say
only the noise
of your voice—
how long
has this dust
been descending

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elegy for a pop king by DB Cox

where am i
where have i gone
covered over
with fifty years
of accumulated stone
hidden beneath
a hundred
shifting faces
which were no more
than aliases
for every lost hour
spent like pocket change
wandering a forever
neverland
like a prisoner
on the yard
no way out—
no destination—
constantly
glancing back
to be sure
of a frail shadow
which pales
a little each day
fading into
that vague space
between savage
& savior

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