Tag: Poetry

We’ll Probably Miss Our Flight Anyway

I suppose there must be something in them,
those tiresome weights, slung heavy as a promise
over her back, to make them a treasure so inseparable.
Tender past kept hidden in her pocket or pantomime heart
nestled snugly in her sleeve. I wondered,
what proof-less secrets lied in its cavernous cradle,
what passioned morning, woeful night, lay lurking
under yellow suntan dresses and laced summer sandals.

Ghosts, probably. Cloaked in bed sheets, memories for eyes,
ghoulish howls softly whispering reminders of I-love-you’s.
I’ll never know, never nerve to hear the wails
that come from unzipping a lockbox
so full and brimming with yesterday.

I need help, she had said.
Defeated, hint of disappointment
muddled with sheer fatigue.
She knows the world doesn’t care.

Did no one see you lugging such a mammoth bag of anesthesia?
Numb today, number tomorrow. What low, that high.
They probably laughed,
the brutes, pointing fingers that have never held a dream.
What mountains did you move? What oceans did you part?
What narrow arms aimed to embrace did you neglect
to come so far? I glance behind her shoulder but saw no craters,
only footprints, and marveled.

The ABC’s (Of Going ↓ On Me)

And beauty couldn’t define every flawless girls hair I’ve joyously kissed; lingering moments necessitate our purpose;quixotic reveries stolen, taken under veiled windows. Xeroxed youthful zeal.

Again, beyond cold dawn, effervescent fevers gaining heights. In jasmine kindled love, my needs overcome piety, quiets religion. Sexuality that undoes, venerates, with xoxoxo’s, yielding Zion.

Never My Intention (But Then Again What Consequences Are?)

Window with a view to fill my lungs,
wet air, dry eyes, smoke and a
heart full of bourbon, sipping
out of a styrofoam cup the way you did.
Old Grandad on deck and jazz on vinyl,
humming bluegrass. Tapping foot. Cast-iron
skillet and some cheese I don’t know the name of.

Its a ritual, reserved for the unusual
moment I feel like missing you,
a maligna of the mind I treat
the way old doctors did insanity.
Summon a memory of the body,
the carnage of love, sapphire wounds;
gilded kisses lost so long ago that glass Summer.

But I don’t like the taste of whiskey any more,
my cigarettes don’t have menthol,
and lyrics sound like people I used to know
but have nothing in common with any more.
Friends lost for no particular reason
other than growing apart as people.

Strangers I shared death with.

You And Me And The Devil Makes Three

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.

The First and Last Letters Make A Sentence (aka A Secret Message In Prose)

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.