VOICES FROM THE FIRE:Christian Garduno

Saint Jerome’s Blues

It’s travelling to my heart
and the diagnosis, it doesn’t look good
It’s melting into my veins
and the prognosis, it doesn’t look good

I crawled my way to Saint Jerome
he gave me a carafe of red and sent me stumbling home
And the next time I see Saint Jerome
I’m going to crack his heart of stone

It’s gone to my brain
and for the first time, I’m really afraid
It’s spreading to the other half of my mind
I’m receding further & further into my cave

Keep me in your tiny box of thoughts
this. is. not. fixable.
Think of me from time to time please
all the fixes in the world can’t fix me 

I’m off to see Saint Jerome
I’m going home

(previously published by Gnashing Teeth Publications)

Ghosts in The Treme

Violet nights with crimson eyes
lay down your symphonies
surrender in the morning
all the dreams you couldn’t pawn

The moon whiter than milk
we crossed an invisible line
who knows what they do
with the memories you throw away

All’s above board
and love below sea-level
All’s above board
and love below sea-level

Not all the souls in the graveyard are dead
some would like one last word with you
and that sorry round sun will have to wait until
the day after tomorrow to even show his face

Were we really so different then?
it all seems so many ages ago
on the contrary
we could do with some general relief

One pill chases another
until the bottle is empty & broken
Home, my love
and do not spare any of the horses

Kudzu Wine

We touched heaven one too many nights
our tears froze in the snow
I put on your big coat just to kill the chill in the air
I light my candles, I can’t help my mind when it comes to you
there’s no direct translation
seems like you’re all out of cards
your only resort at this point is playing nice
nobody bothers to mention when you’ve got it all

You drag your jewels from a pigpen
like time trapped in glass
shattering in slow motion
If, in the event that I…well, never mind
there’s just no point to the point anymore
we had more when we only had each other
we had more when we had nothing at all

Moscow Blues

One cannot be right against the Party
you are only but an index card in The Field Marshal’s office
And soon, bodies are falling like
snowflakes on the ice

I suppose it’s all babblespeak
state policy is a pistol firing
you must wipe Yelena from your mind
consign her to the dustbin

Moscow does not believe in tears
you don’t care much about your hair
once you’re beheaded
It’s the law of seven-eighths

And we degenerate into doing as much damage
as we can before that bullet reaches us–
and it was fired ages ago
ages ago

Liberation is freedom
backed by firing squads
secret ballots
and public hangings

Crawling about on all fours
your face is human but your eyes are animal
fighting with cats on the street
over a dead pigeon