The Dog Days of Destruction


They’re over:
those close calls, those aimless chases,

those carefree afternoons
completely devoid of meaning.

Age is the only law now,
gravity pulling our flesh
towards creaky wooden floors,
skin dragged downward to stained carpeting,

lower and lower
before we, ourselves,

sleep beneath the soil’s

Winds give way to still shadows,
the crowd freezing beneath skyscrapers,

marvels of modern architecture
siphoning sunlight and spewing
pedestrians onto the streets


Gone are the summer sweats,
those hot and heavy bouts
of cleansing,

uncomfortable evenings spent
in desperate escape attempts,

ponds and lakes providing
momentary peace

before the sweltering air
sent us off
to uneasy beds.

Those humid days are not forgotten
but rather, romanticized in
skewed remembrance

Winter storms the defenseless city.

Many lament the snowfall;
I worship the silence.

PJ CARMICHAEL is a writer, artist, noise musician and amateur photographer from Wakefield, Massachusetts. His interests include immersion in the natural environment and subsequently extend into the metaphysical.