At any given moment.

My bedside manner is awkward at best. But I will stand beside you and hold your hand. When your mouth is dry I will get you a glass of water. When you hurt I will attempt a story or two to keep your mind off the pain.

Please do not take it personal if I fall asleep. My mind is everywhere lately; sleep overcomes me at the strangest times. Perhaps we shall rest together?

p.s. arrive at once yet move about with disregard and a clumsy swagger.





"FUCK!"

Illusory Perfection.

I am captive and captured in stills, recalled and rendered in sepia toned illusion. My skin is translucent and tangible only to those with clever eyes and a mangled perception. It is there, hovering above birthdays, anniversaries, doctor appointments, and due dates that you will find me, a constant reminder to offer best wishes and maintain schedule. It seems strange to consider that someone would be ticking off days in such a way, counting down to events that I will never attend.

I am usually inspired while I do my ticking, but that does not happen very often. It is rarely with me, and I often forget…tick, tick, tick.

I am absent, and days go by while I forget. But I am drawn out soon enough. The need to move among the living, shoulder to shoulder, pulls me from my daydream. I must be just in reach. Then I wander off for a coffee, and I am reminded again, my impulsive progression brought to a screeching halt by an unfamiliar voice. The sinister tone still rings my ears “Hey motherfucker you got anything real to say?” I never do. I will though, and I will smile when I say it. “Too bad you missed it prick.”

Now that I have had a good breather, stretched my legs, and fashioned myself a clever new suit, I will attempt to remember to tick off the days.

There are things that I have yet to say, ears I have yet to perk. Shall I scream?


p.s. strange days.

The sincerest form of flattery.

Seasonal Affect

Three months ahead
It gets deep.
The measure remains
Uncharted
While dirt stains

Underneath, waiting warmth
Will rise again.
Spirits lift eyes
Renewed
To the skies

A blazing rage
Hammers shoulders
Covered in paste.
Saved
In the haste

A death produced
Yellow orange glow.
To waste away
Piled
For another day.


Because I am feeling rather optimistic.

p.s. do not be fooled by imitation spread.

Happy Endings.

Shame Folded Neatly

The closet was dark, and the air stale.
I waited until I could no longer hear
the breathing, and cracked open the door.
It took several seconds for my eyes to begin
to adjust to the light; I had been hidden
for several hours, most of the night.
And each breath you withhold, while still
sat across the room, arms crossed, and waiting
is released into the center of the room. I hear you
now your image becomes shadow, then curved line,
then hair, cheeks, eyes, lips, and my racing heart
is released into the center of the room. I hear you
I am fully admitted and betrayed
by the vibrations of that persistent organ
pounding in my ears and of that accidental welcome.
You alight beside me
relieving me of my guard, and returning
my promise of faith.

I thought I had waited long enough, but instead you held fast to your claim that I would emerge faithfully back into the room. And of course, I did. Not yet ready to face our lost time. And the screaming, long since dulled against the cold green plaster walls now cracked by our words thrown hard, aimed at heads and hearts, but missing. In the center of this room all that remains is heated breath and pounding heart. And the two of us are searching our thoughts, and desperately trying to string together enough words to reconnect.







p.s. sometimes in the moment we are unable to see the forest for the trees.



"Yes, I do." so now, back to that question...

I prefer it twice a day.

To a Reader
Robert Hass

I've watched memory wound you.
I felt nothing but envy.
Having slept in wet meadows,
I was not through desiring.
Imagine January and the beach,
a bleached sky, gulls. And
look seaward: what is not there
is there, isn't it, the huge
bird of the first light
arched above first waters
beyond our touching or intention
or the reasonable shore.



p.s. they are not entirely well yet...in the meantime, in others words I revel.

For now...this bit of my bad, bad wit.

The magician is in the kitchen
Cooking up some fun
Pasteurize the chicken
Then put it on a bun
Load it up with sauce
And then
Put it on a plate
Eat it up and smile again
Before it is too late.

Now ask…too late for what?











The rhythm of my thoughts is calming. The grainy cadence of my voice is a constant reminder that I must, and will, refrain. It rains and it pours, beating the pattern like a tambour in my skull. The words are fugacious, and conservation is my priority. I have the ability to catch the phrases, hold them in sanctuary until they are well, and re-release them back into their natural habitat. I must let them go. Captivity will only foster anxiety, increasing the pacing…the back and forth search for limits.

It is there that they will live out the duration of their lives.



p.s. is it ridiculous to consider the possibility?

Absent minded memory.

Last night you said
“I would give you the moon.”
Pull it down from the sky
and feed you by spoon.

In your whisper, while hushed
I was bribed by conceit.
Force fed through a tube
of ill will and deceit.

Then, the grandest of gestures
you walked out of the room.
Strangling me in a glut
of dissonance and doom.

Last night I said
“I would give you the moon.”
And you took it greedily
not a moment too soon.

p.s. it was at that exact moment that the unraveling began.