Christopher R. Kennedy Poems

Wouldn’t it be strange to meet a psychopath
Stand three feet from his demonic skull
And stare into his sunken eyes which
You know must crinkle with warmth
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Earthy brown, thick fingers
That seem to have sprang
From a cliff side’s red clay
Handle the petals and stems
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Amethyst eyes of petrified light
Shine through the silky darkness like
A flashlight through a bedsheet
Moon beams lick the sky where purple cloud
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Between beams of soggy sun,
Streaked by the shades of weeping gray trees,
And trapped between walls of ice-cold mud and
Gray grass and twigs like green, jagged skeletons,
...

I see him stand in streetlight rays.
He shivers from the dark.
Every night he shakes hands
With the incoming night.
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Before I’d call it morning
But past the point I’d call it night
Every day I wake from murky dreams
To an impatient alarm’s clock’s scream
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Enormous shrubs adorned with candy roses
That stretch from left to right like
The horizon
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I confess I play with matches
I stash them under the fattest pillows
Still they never bloom with yellow fire
For I prefer to count them with an enormous finger
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We’re all Honey Nut cheerios in a grand bowl of skim milk
An ocean of whiteness that stretches to the horizon
Gray sky black trees red people and this white ocean
That stretches to the horizon
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Somber flames dance on their wicks
Which are coated with ashen ice
They bend their legs and
Tug on the blanketed dusk just as the
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