Finding Fire
My writing is not
vulnerability
I am not bleeding
on the page.
I dig into the
hive-mind
and find traces
of fire
in the seas
of mediocrity
I’ve Been Writing
I’ve been writing
some stories
about the folks
I grew up with—
the rebel rousers
who’s knuckles
were cut from
teeth and bone,
the real savages
from fatherless
homes down the
Bayshore who
looked a lot like
me.
I changed
their names in the
prose to protect
them—
to thank them
for all the nights
they protected me
from other
fatherless kids
who tore around
the streets in
stolen bikes with
brass knuckles
on their belt
buckles.
How silly
were we?
Thinking to
be a man we had
to swing our
fists
thinking that
spilling blood
was a
ritual that
would make
us
whole.
Gone
You are gone like dust
from the hood of the car we’d
cruise the Bayshore streets in.
Along with your laugh
the way you’d flash your smile
beat of a good heart
will soundtrack our thoughts
which lie heavy with you today
as you find your way
to the peace you craved
I hope it finds you there
and soothes the ones
left behind.
~ Damian Rucci
from the hood of the car we’d
cruise the Bayshore streets in.
Along with your laugh
the way you’d flash your smile
beat of a good heart
will soundtrack our thoughts
which lie heavy with you today
as you find your way
to the peace you craved
I hope it finds you there
and soothes the ones
left behind.
~ Damian Rucci