Vituperance

I heard her go off while I was waiting somewhat patiently in the checkout line,
the vibrato of her tone like shattering glass from a hundred picture windows
came crashing across the aisle like a wave as her voice climbed from a
quiver to a howling whine.
She wasn't so short as to disappear despite what everyone probably desired,
She was not so tall as to tower above the cashier below her anger and pain
she was not so thin to dismiss as a waif, nor was she so fat that it excused
the situation in which we are quagmired.
The importance of made up words displaced only by the effects of  rage
at the impotence of the bagging clerk standing stock still in line of fire
ranting over the whole shmeal, the meat, the broken eggs, the unfairness
of looking or acting her age.
If it wasn't another matter of wasted time, If I weren't the way I am
If it wasn't so late in the day, it's just 20 bucks that's all I have to say,
If it wasn't just so stupid, dumb, and obscenely funny I would just
sit down where I am and then tell her that I don't really give a damn.

It was my words but his blood upon the crumpled page

Roxanne,

As I am sure you will know by now, we are both dead
gone to the dust, to the snow, down to the earth, all our
choices have led us to know that it was his last word
upon his lips that moved my pen that final time on this
crumbled bit of page.
Loss, and lost we both are to have come to these unfortunate
ends, ah the cruel jest that it was all for unrequited love that
made us become friends. As the sun sets upon the fields so
bright, so vibrant, so very green, I pause to recollect what all
of our loves and likes should really mean. I loved you almost
as much as he wanted to. You loved us both, but this is as they'd
say time passed, the ironic view. we have let death take our
last collective breath,
Judge me not, lest you judge him too, This is all we had to make
us have to choose, Now the ground grows cold, my dying becomes
old, I gave you my all, nothing left to lose, let this be my epitaph
to be engraved upon our stones. That we both loved, fought this
fate with all our collective rage. It is my words but now both our
blood upon the crumpled page. 

Prague

A thousand years of age marks the stones that surround the narrow streets,
a few hundred feet march in time to a drum beat under the crimson flags
of another mad dictator or over zealous savior as their reigns come and go
buildings rise up with buttresses and fall back down in the flames stoked
by the insane passions of an all too familiar sense of post modern warfare.
The Vltava crawls through the city green and blue, the waters old then new
as the myriads of saints face each other and cross in a graceful arch whilst
musicians and street performers ply their trades like marionettes at play
Was this the way it was in my memory? Was this the day I claim to see
the angels casting their flaming shadows down upon the cobblestones
while in the alleys the monsters rest, the shadows follow their stride.
Did I walk there in a dream?
Was I a man of elder smoke and sallow bone?
Was there a moment when the gaslights remembered the forgotten names
will the ghosts that walk the ways between the sinners and the shame
of a thousand days where history went awry. Was this where I saw
the girl with the dark blue hair, Was it her footprints I found there
in the snows covering the statues in Wenceslas Square?
When I walk in the old town in the noise, the urban confusion
 I find myself looking for fictional diners with goulash in bowls
hidden behind the shops, the underground catacombs of collusion
with revolutionaries marked by blood, the soft touch of velvet sublime
was this the same city or place that is lost yet not in the annuals of time?