Today is not a day for words:
they evaporated when the sun rose,
violet pink and red, this rose sun,
melting the day before.
They’ve lost all meaning, these words,
these words I loved the day before,
beating page thumping at my fingertips,
pulsing hymns of hims and hers and theys
and souls and images. Now all I see are shapes,
carved out silhouettes of what they meant
empty as a shadow. Meaningless-pointless-shallow
I’d rather sit outside bare in the cold
chilled bones from sitting too long on steppes
of stones, feeling drops of rain dampen my cigarettes,
than sit at home writhing in papercuts,
The day before words were so much more,
but not today, because
today is not a day for words.
2AM again, a restless dream, undressing under twilight
but somebody has to keep the moon company.
Yes, yes, you said. Not yet, no, not yet.
I call you Gaia and kiss the sands,
jump and dance and make a mess,
and I laugh, you laugh, we laugh;
the moonlight kisses us.
If only I could love you properly-
my fingers ready, edging, always aching
for yours. So young, and bold, and hairy.
No, no, you said. No, not yet, not yet.
You call me worrier, kiss my hands,
jump and dance and make the bed,
and I laugh, I laugh, I laugh;
the sunlight kisses us.
But my hands start thinning.
These pills are small and delicate, helpless little orphans,
and my body is a temple. Ain’t nobody got it like
this little bottle of mine- white little capillaries
pills of death that pulse and keep me
One every four hours, do not exceed six.
I’m sixty nined from bars and dimes every minute so
I dose in doubles, puffing silver linings
on a rummy cloud. I am The Great Pretender,
forgetful historian, a series of bullet points
on what it means to be listless. I am the vague biographer,
caustic chronicler of the categorically insignficant.
But it’s not so bad. These woes whoa me no more
and dreams feel more real when I’m awake; I call it
lucid living. Though I’m still full of envy
a the bravery of corner vagrants, shouting crack-ed lungs
at pigeons in the park. But now he fades away, vague,
I don’t know where, like ripples in a pond. At least
he doesn’t linger in my mind and ruin me any more.
My heart no longer brags- no more
I am I am I am’s– it sighs.
But twice every four hours, my smile comes
easier, and I can see the faults in our starlit eyes
and badly thatched hearts. Stale highs eventually swing
violently low and I have to stop myself
from smashing something delicate. A bottle, or myself.
And I would, if only I could get a grip, but when
the night grows teeth and digs into the heart and
memories, what is there to do? Set the alarm
and try again tomorrow.
There is a distinction between being angry
at or with yourself, and I am full
of a gangrene envy I do not outgrow.
Resentment rooted too deep in the soil,
hate, too often, being something inherited.
Oh how I want to be let alone, but I am no good
for myself. To replant would be a practice
in redundancy, a gray and daily drone,
monotony of the routine- a lovers caress
I used to miss, known all too well
and (not) enjoyed.
Doctor, doctor, won’t you dose my heart
in drugs and soma? Dry my dreams and
wet my sight, glazed awake and comatose.
Excuse these vacant eyes, medicated,
euthanasia of the soul. Asleep and listless,
I am not human at the moment, but something feral.
This land is my land and it is rotted,
overrun, a sickness spread like smallpox
blankets of love, life, friends, and other
tragedies. Ash it all and start anew;
controlled fires, prescribed burns
on bridges I won’t ever use.
How best but flame to break a bond?
It is wood, the oldest metal; tinder,
common, precious, and little. Smoke
rising to settle, the deed done but
never finished. Fuming eyes, smoldered
heart left alone to wonder-
how will I get around myself?