Not A Day For Words

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,
hollowed,
carved out silhouettes of what they meant
empty as a shadow. Meaningless-pointless-shallow
shapes.

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,
hemorrhaging feelings.
The day before words were so much more,
but not today, because
today is not a day for words.

En Absencia (aka Love Only Realized After)

I shouldn’t have disappeared the way I did.  I have never felt such a connection, such a symmetry to someone else in this world. It was never so easy to share my life with a woman, not just the center, but the dark and torn edges we often hide in shame from others. The smallest conversations with you were an adventure, you came to me and remained so unexpected like a dream. And with the brilliance of your thoughts and kindness of your heart, a part of me wondered if I hadn’t made you up in one. 

The days and moments we spent together still haunt me, in a beautiful but far too painful of a way. Even now I can’t think of a single use for my hands than to hold yours. My mouth and tongue feel pointless no matter who else wants to listen. The world has become such a stranger to me, and though I miss you more than these little words could ever contain, I can’t bring myself to bring you back into my life as just a friend. You mean too much to me, and that box just can’t fit what my heart won’t filling it with. The maybe of us has gotten its answer, and while I want nothing more than for you to have everything and exactly what you desire from this broken world, it breaks me too much to be on the sidelines and a footnote in your happiness.

I’m sorry my love is too selfish to ever see you as anything else but my everything.

There’s No Such Thing As Grown Up Goths or Hipsters (Only Adults Who Can’t Afford Nice Clothes)

Whenever a job begins to harp about how well they treat their employees, my first recommendation is to check and see if they’ve bolted shut the door. If not, then turn around immediately and run.

But if it is, because of some misplaced hope or your own financial obligations, then absolutely leap through the nearest open window as soon as you get the chance- regardless of what floor you were on. Any company that needs take the time and explain why it’s such a benefit to work there is because it isn’t, and you should be obvious to such a glaring and immediate red flag. Like a stranger you’ve only just met, who won’t shut up about what a good person they are. 

Although such a hyperbole should be taken with a grain of discount salt. I’ve never given that thought much weight and never follow it anyhow. To me a job is just a job- a place to go and waste some odd 10 or 11 hours if the traffic is good. Shoot the shit with Bill or Karen every time you pass by them to use the bathroom, cash a paycheck every other week and call it a day. And Who says something so immaterial as money has to be derived by what you think is meaningful or fulfilling? Maybe the reason they’re paying you is to do a thing nobody else wants to do? 

That kind of philosophy sounds more like a modern way of coping, a self-bargaining to not feel trapped by the lives we know we have to lead. It’s no coal mine or shoe shop in an unnamed third world country, but if you don’t justify it by the time you’re thirty, that nine-to-five will kill ya. 

And I’m no communist, so pour another spoon of salt if you have any left. Because a man’s got to make a living, the Dark Ages had God, and now Karen in accounting’s got a sense of accomplishment.

Remember the Alamo(ny)

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?