Voracious

There was never more time
than when I was 23,
bold, brash and free.
I called out to any, to all…
you will never make me fall
as I pushed back

up from the pavement.

It is faster now, time.
Being no longer 23,
with a near carbon-copy me
I chase after and hold
for a moment, to keep
her from falling.
She will, I know.
Just as she tumbles head over heels in the grass, a summersault.
She will tumble a life.
Over and over, the days
I can salve and bandage her knee,
treat the sting of a bee,
turn her ear to my voice
singing on or off key.
She will stop crying,
only momentarily

before she will be
pushing off of 23.

Third Door on the Right

"I don’t know how to pray," she said.
"For this, for you, the end."
She lay at a loss,
Her eyes polluted, steely slits.
Rice paper skin loosely holding in
Vast, venerable veins.
Their purpose fooled
Into considering one more day.
"It is Thursday,
And I have a permanent."
Then her eyes fix themselves
Upon mine, she knows.
"Keep me in mind,
Dear." I won’t forget.
And that is just like her
To hold off death intent
To have her say. Again
She knows, and then does not,
It is time. Fraught
With just enough heart
Remaining, she pulls her way
Loose from her body, barely
What it was when she was put to bed.
It is cold and blue and black and red.
For the last time,
"I don’t know how to pray,"
She said. It is alright…
I will for this, for you, the end.

English Paneling

1-4

This is how I will suffocate,
in your adoration.
Hands cover my mouth
while I keep my resolution.
I put my fingers in my ears,
and disappear
before you
tell me, tell me
you love me.

5

Desolate Bungalow

Gravity Paper

Ink Wired

Numb

Perpetual Absence

Unhinged Focus

Lost Wax

Done

6-9

Days, dry as dirt
kicked up in heels,
catch in my throat.
I want them back.
Tomorrow, better yet-
today, I will stop
rushing away. The distance
between here and the deserted
has been
forgotten.
Washed up,
I am ready to devour those days.

10-13

I am dead in a box in the center of the room talking to everyone or no one can hear me or they neglect to listen because I do not say what they want to hear or I make no sense to anyone but myself because I am only speaking to someone a million miles away from where I am at present they cannot hear me or I make no sense.

14-17

I am out of corks
with a barrel full of holes.
The relief will not stop;
resentment pouring and filling
the cracks in the walls,
plaster caked in puke green,
painted over in pink
for all the world to see.

Best Dressed Death

The Millers

I am reminded of the man at the bar
Who has forgotten who his kids are.
There, swallowing tequila straight
Same call as every night his fate.
To me, he blames it on the whore
Claims she pushed him out the door,
But he can’t provide the reason why.
And, I am certain she would deny
His musings to me this late hour.
They are causing my gut to sour.
But, that is how he believes it to be.
He says he won’t go back, you see
That he’s still in Rye, there living.
Only now, looking in me to find forgiving.
He says he’s certain they will find
She has lost her fucking mind.
And, it is only himself he’s hurting
While hiding behind his convertible curtain,
To save him from his mirrored face.
He won’t look across and find disgrace,
Instead sets his eyes on the last of the bottle.
All of his duplicitous life he’s set to throttle
In a dull thudded break of dawn.
His head heavy under his crown,
He buries each night, repeated.
The music, he says she cheated.
If only the radio had played that night,
There would be nothing, nothing right.

Terminus

Seventeen years had passed since their admission, supine, hands clasped. The moment paused and rewound so many times it has begun to slip and slur. Yet it remains solid, holding down everything from that time, forward. It is the ground to which any path may be traced.

It is far from nothing.

They were alone, their easy banter quickly escalating to hysteria. It was cast. He pressed his words between their laughter, hoping that the weight of their meaning may be buoyed by the mirth of the spell. As he had hoped, they had caught her off guard. And, she swallowed her response, continuing to laugh as if what he said was part of the folly.

It is easier to disbelieve.

Then he turned to her and she found the truth in his eyes. He wanted to take it back; he did take it back. While she held her breath and hoped that she could find her words, and that they wouldn’t sound ridiculous in the wake of her stay, he had let his words disintegrate.

The moment was gone.

In an instant, fear can consume you. It can make you refrain from disclosure, from the truth. You may hold your tongue or reel in its wag. Once it is fixed, fear can thrive in you for years, feeding off of regret, recycling into a fierce energy…anger.

It can destroy.

Or you may gain experience, chalk it up to another missed cue. You can allow yourself to forgive, provide another the opportunity to atone. Understand that when acknowledged, fear can guide you. You can turn it around and fear can provide additional strength to push you beyond previous expectations, to rise above limitations.

What has become of them?

Over 2500 miles travelled between the lines, their lives. They both stand as a movable marker for a moment, a slide rule for a decision. They are not broken, but both are damaged. Each has a life filled with family, friends, knowledge, achievements, and failed attempts. Of course, there is a portion of their lives of which the other is aware, a fraction that they speculate. But, neither knows that the other will occasionally recall that moment, reflecting on, but never regretting, its purpose.







p.s. nemo.

guts

It is interesting when you get a fresh perspective of yourself from a new acquaintance. Even at this reasonably accomplished age, I am still able to find myself anew.

Recently, I have been fortunate to gain the friendship of an interesting character. A smart, quick-witted, young “old chap” of a guy whose creativity and open-minded ideals speak volumes for his generation. At his age I was not nearly as wise, worldly, cultured, present, or relevant as he is. Even now his intellect far exceeds my own, and his ability to perceive others astounds me. He is very deliberate with his words, often taking what seems to me to be far too long to respond to my often off-kilter banter. But always following his reflection, he delivers an astute, provocative discourse on whatever topic I had mindlessly rambled into. Seriously, the guy can talk me under the table…and that is saying something.

And I must admit he is a bit off, as well. Regardless, or perhaps in spite of those facts, I find him very interesting.

As it goes with most new friendships there is the crush period. The time where everything about the new friend is fascinating and we often try to find a bit of ourselves in our new pal. And so my new friend has attempted to find fascination in me, and has asked for the privilege (his term, not mine) of reading some of my writing. I initially waved him off, figured he would find what he wanted or give up. But, after the third very polite request, I obliged.

It is strange; I can write for an unknown audience without fear. I can put it out there for the world to read, all of it…without a second thought. Yet when I directly hand over a few poems to my new friend, I am paralyzed.

As I said, my new friend is very perceptive. So, when I stuffed a few of my poems in his hand and continued on about the weather, he immediately detected my insecurity. He saw in my rushed speech and downcast eyes that I was nervous. And while I waited for him to speak, to interrupt my prattle, I reeled. He placed the pages face down on the table, then said “Ah yes, I see I was correct. You are an exhibitionist and shy, both.”

Which really put me to thought…what purpose am I serving with these characteristics, if characteristics do in fact serve us?

I suppose that those opposing characteristics, that in my case are so apparently extreme, benefit each other. I can only imagine that my unchecked exhibitionism would undoubtedly lead me to my depraved end, and that my need to slap the world in the face keeps me from becoming a total shut-in.



p.s. what you got in you; what it takes.

metamorphic