Bruce Majors

A moment of truth compels a greater bondage 

than dozens of years of lies. 



Night Visitors – Dream Scape 

All week, anxiety has been building. An abscess

of memories that won’t heal. A sick belly that Maalox won’t

keep from churning.


Walking familiar corridors, the house is filled with

ghosts, memories of my own little demi gods wanting reverence

I can no longer give.


Sometimes whisper-like noise enters the room.

Ancient Voices of Children” chanting together,

harmonic depiction of Winter’s broken heart. Quiet utterances

speaking at once … wind blowing in dry grass…

I have made many mistakes.


Dark wine, lucid recollections twisted

in my mind, some horrible, some less so,

communicated by the children of yellowed photographs, and old letters,

whispering songs, what I am, what I might become. Plethora

of strange options.


4:30 AM. George Crumb’s *timbrel essay paying homage

to Lorca and the haunting image of his poetry. As the

children speak, contrition swells and ghost memories

fade to black.