A Danger to Self and Others
by Tyree Campbell


The postal clerk eyed
her and the thick manila envelope
suspiciously
Shaking it
"Anything printed, liquid, hazardous---?"

"Don't spill it!" she screamed.

But it was too late.
Tiny silver droplets
rained onto the counter
each splash spreading
like a disease

The clerk covered his nose
and bent to read the droplets

". . . to right of them, cannon to . . ."
". . . ages hence:  two roads diverged . . ."
". . . apples of the Moon, the golden . . ."

Empty and dark is this lot where I stand.
As I watch you drift along with the wind.

One second you remain, and then the next you fade.

If only my screams did not ricochet back to me.
If only you could blow right back, but no, you can’t.

It’s summer and you’re gone.
You’ve been gone for years.

When your own eyes reflect a stranger

A world alone

There is no welcome home

The haunting infection of desperation

Reaching for someone that isn’t there

Rejected by your own soul

No embrace to warm from the brutal cold

They say hell is fire and flame

But your damnation is desolation and ice

Your penance the frigid wasteland of nonexistence

the pearly whites of her eyes
shone through staggered chimney pots
nesting on rooftops
a genuine, clothed disguise
keeps me from this whirling dust
these constellations that collide
ignite sunflower eyes
and bottle caped lies
tied with a pretty, pink ribbon
that i'd use to make a cape.
she was softness, and she was grace
patchworks of weathered, stained fabric
cut out of some fairytale book
with one, boresome, missing page.

It flows
Drip by drip
Tumbling down the crevices of the cliff
Smooth, silent, scrambling

A spectre

Aching, weeping
Drowned in sorrow

Reaching out to steady unsteady limbs
It latches onto the rocky crest
Fighting to stay, to keep going, to live

Teetering on sea legs,
it rises, bows its head towards the raging storm
And journeys
Step by difficult step

Back
To those distant lamps in ancient windows
To lush green slopes and craggled trees
To a rainsoaked cardigan and tearsoaked eyes

Back

Don't die on a Wednesday in mid-July
when you've just installed new double-glazing.
No one will notice, and no one will cry.
All else will continue: central heating,
insurance policies, hypericum.
Only your wife who finds you, red as brick
but cold as stone, will moan. A tripped alarm,
her voice will carry over the clean-picked
lawns, stop neighbors in their ceremony
of washing. Santa, who clung for his life
last Christmas, is replaced by a small tree –
fiber-optic glory glints off a knife:
she never used to carve, must find the knack.

those who remember,
hear chimes in supernovas.
the words of the night sky ring endlessly,
until every screaming voice passes into that space
which hundreds forgot.

those who remember,
are born out of parchment and ink,
willed into existence by the angry scribblings
of a writer doomed to sink,
drowned in her own mind.
until, she forgets why she picked up a pen in the first place.

those who remember,
will exist beyond the years they were once confined to.
they will die and die again only to be reborn,
to laugh,
to dance,

Going for gold Glory road Won Facing your fears Balancing act Balanced New road taken New endeavors Challenge

The world is neither white nor black
But shades of gray.

So is nature.
So are our lives.
To see the perfect whole – impossible.
Each value system so unique.
Like you.

Be true to your beliefs.
Your peers.
Your community.
An live within yourself to the fullest.
It’s the small imperfections
That make you human.

Laugh,
Cry,
Always grow,
Touch up humanity.

Look at greatness.
Emulate the best.
Exceed.
Strive.
Believe.

But always return to yourself.
You are temporary.
You are not eternal.

     Tonight I wept for the stars that aren't in the right places, the stoves that light their sacred fires are running out the clock, and the ash that comes from the skies in the hallowed lands far, far East of my lunar contemplations is choking the people's dreams, drop by drop, from the well of their piquant hearts—to the point where a small life could be lost in the torrents of a larger one, the dance of light to a precious many is fuel for another's fanatical and rapacious machine of obstinance and greed—a dour fight for decency is just another card laid on a table full of