Her kiss is a relapse, misfortune,
worsening of my worst impulses;
an awful influence full of irresistible.
Her words are drugs and drugs are a clutch,
til highs do us part and lows make us
whole again. Bags of heavy yesterdays
weigh down, and I don’t know what to do with myself.
Taken hands, hushed words, rushed stalls-
what a waste to not grab waist and do
a four letter word (love). Plans to keep
and make her a home, 5PM lockdown, rush hour,
crowded public when doubts double and my mouth
taste like cinders. Slipping into a thought of her
like a favorite pair of jeans. Snug, familiar,
warm; she fits well. Run my thumb along the holes
and coffee stains, wonder what memory or feeling
the moment will settle as, when the honeys and the moons
fade. If my name will be a sigh, wistful as a cloud,
or vague as rain humming to what the radio plays.
A feeling haunting me in the distance, a reminder
that you are in tangles and I am tangelsome.
Still I pray for relapse and disaster,
addiction and her sex to once again step into me,
far from fog and drizzled Sundays, so I might tug
on her thoughts like a shoelace. I am undone again.
More often than not I find myself staring at buildings with a bit of disgust as I drive by them in my car. Carefully constructed monstrosities that liter the world with their colossal, unnatural, suffocating presence fill my stomach with nausea.
Ultimately, I’ve never been much of an environmentalist and would condone destroying an entire forest if it meant having fresh #2 pencils always available at nearby department stores but I’ve always felt the cities architectures to be smug, silent oversee-ers to mankind; watching as we scurry blindly to and from, holding their laughter at our pathetic attempts to make sense of a world without, mute grins as we erect more of these deity’s and declare them the creations of men and look on with indifferent stares even as the whole world crumbles till there is nothing at all.
Frequently I tend to stare right back at them with cold, unmoving, unflinching eyes for hours at a time and occasionally could see their almost undetectable discomfort in a particular way the suns light shimmers off their large glass windows; fearful, they shift uncomfortably because their ruse has fooled everyone but I. Every waking moment I have been preparing for the day when their power over us would be gone forever; the day I would set us all free and humanity would be the only ones allowed to stand so heavenly and tall. Daily, my mother calls, saying she’s been worried about me ever since I got fired and that I looked thinner last she saw.
“All right mom, I am just fine why would you be worried” was all I said, my eyes looming over building schematics, large bags under my eyes from my recent insomnia and intricately delicate plans. Realistically, some will call me crazy in the future but others would thank me after the war, having saved the world from hurt, pain and cheating boyfriends so the only leading cause of death is joy of old age; not an uzi. Generations of our newfound freedom will revile buildings and live in huts made of mud and carry our own fresh fruit from our farms instead of processed canned goods injected with government poison mush. The historians will look back on today as a savage era while they talk about the evenings virgin sacrifice, chanting songs to their blood-thirsty God over a bonfire and discussing the evils of a 9-5 job. United, we will live in perfect harmony where no one hungers, no one feels alone, and girls only tell you they love you when they mean it.
Chasing the whiskey that fell into her eyes.
I wanted to do something stupid and romantic,
to take her to an art museum
and kiss her between the paintings.
To write her name beside mine in a tree bark.
But I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want to.
And still I said;
Let me secretly love you- all of you; the hard edges of your skin and personality, corners, cut sharp as diamonds where your cheek starts and tongue begins to end my existence. There’s too much spray in your hair and it frizzes against my chin, which is somewhat appropriate, considering you make my head feel like helium. Empty, but full as air, and when I’m against your lips, your voice makes a very funny sound that goes up an octave or two. Annoying as that orange I can’t stop remembering from Youtube, calming as the dumb songs you keep secretly adding to my Spotify. Send Nudes stuck on repeat, Cuban cigars and menthol cigarettes dinge-ing up the bedside counter your grandfather made just before he bit the lust and disappeared. Look at the dusk,my love. Summer is on us, and where there should be heat for touch I only feel a cool and calling tenderness. My heart beats, not for, but because of you.
Coming to terms with the temporary
is an exercise in futility. The glass can be
full or empty, but I’m smiling either way.
Composure is so often mistaken with ease,
and some might be fool enough to think
my grin is anything
grass and elm stretched tall and wide,
a grey-calm sky recovering like
someone just finished crying.
could I remember these days?
billowing clouds and swelling sighs building
in hearts and lungs. lips breathe and release
heavy waste like an exhaust pipe. I wonder,
will I remember these days?
nature makes a man feel peace, serenity,
understanding insignificance, no matter
the road ahead or trials behind him.
should I remember these days?
no, but they are necessary.