Switching on to what turns me on
sees me glint colourful through porous escapades,
a rainbow flaunting shamelessly elemental;
driven on waves of hormonal freedom,
naked this solace of self ..Simple.
Connections' conversely complex,
risk fraught ....risk need;
where loneliness stirs like my bare feet on sand,
with hopeless toes that try to anchor if just for the turn of the tide
or until, ears attune to whispers of the changing wind.....
Here, waiting can see chance pass by the lazy heart,
in its overcoat of reluctance....
to offer, to call for; to act.
Thankful for the silence beneath my cloak
that welcomes, accepts,
where freedom floats free over warring taboos locked
in rooms of unresolved pain.
most days I prevail,
a chaos of particles swollen by heat
I'm seen, spraying like hot mist speckled in rays of sunshine
that grace me a warm embrace,
I am charged and changed
in perpetual re-assemblance through lights and darks.
flowing like water in a hillside river
your words pour from your mouth
and form cool pools of liquid good vibes in my content ear
i cannot fathom, you have the tangled pathways of my mind mapped out,
your feet know just were to land and where not to stand
i know because your words are pure reflection
of what my inner thoughts are begging to hear
your eyes are the light moon in my dreary midnight sky
your tongue the soft flame that lights my way
your breath so warmly sweet and fresh it is the only thing my aching lungs will accept
your hands bleed colour back into the black and white melancholy my mind has grown accustomed to
i love you (but i hate how i need you)
baby don't be sad
there are times we're all down
but i'll be by your side
reminding you reasons to be happy
honey don't be mad
i'm sorry for all the stress
but i'll be right there
if you need me just to listen
sweetie don't get stressed
pressure isn't good for the mind
and your soul and body deserve better
so i'll be here to cheer you on
i love you too much
to see you stress and suffer
so let me help and ease
whatever troubles you may have
The train sirens fell ill on my skin as the gates of waves descended upon the lowly burrows of 12th street and blew it straight into tomorrow's windy, lamenting unification of loneliness. The plague it drew on the youth only rivaled the great hallow abyss in it's forthcoming nature. To the young it was the rotting, the sinister desecration of our world to come. I am only stunned by the great rivalry that seems to coincide in my generation's thoughts, capricious-now or wiseful-tomorrow. We strain to be in the eyes of our fathers and mothers and aunts and uncles, proving to our grandfather that we alone will carry the family name and legacy towards great and unimaginable heights, without the help of others and without the need for pity. Conger a frightful doe perking it's ears to every other sound it hears, that quiet din, it's last acquaintance before the grand, all-knowing silence takes over and surrounds it's being forever. Love thy harkening sorrow and writhe in heavy screams. All will pass but I see none with the sanctity to carry a soul farther than you have already; the seas spring longer and will soon swallow the world. Too many years will pass by before I can understand this with a sober mind. One day will come before I realize that drunken ravings of my night will see it's critical truth in the day by scholars and priests of common sense.
These streets and hidden walkways are my mischief parody now. A mockery of what this city had been to me, a false harken to nothing better yet still...her and me...and us and them...we could of been so grand if things had just fallen better.
I would have that job at some cubicle in some skyscraper and you would work in the schools with the kids who needed your love and they would struggle and be grateful. Our days would be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. Then in the evenings I would pace my way home, to our home, the one on the hillside, with a window and balcony overlooking everything. And we would have a daughter and a son in the works and make love on a whim, enough love for the both of us every-time. And you would spill your day in front of me, everyday and I would never grow tired of any of it. And then in the morning I would rise quiet not to wake you and boil a full pot of coffee, not the expensive kind but just coffee, and read my paper on the warming kitchen table. I would read of politics and people and cats in trees and drink another sip. And you would wake and peek around the corner showing only a quiet smile and at my sight you sat and gently nursed the cup I had already poured for you. Still silent you would crawl into the chair as shiver ran down your spine, revealing the winkles in your face as you puckered but returned to the sereneness that was your always-expression, the same creeping smile that asked nothing but gave so much. [As you ask] Soon I tell you the happenings of our world and paint you the window I had only just read. Piecing together my words in bundles of sage breviloquence, still sifting through the chalky pages as you sighed in such sunrise-joy. And you would leave early as I left not to soon after and we both drove our own cars and parked them at our work and went about our day. And I would drive home from my cubicle to our house on the hill with our plan for a daughter and make love to you in many places, wait for you to go to sleep and find my way out to the balcony. And I would look for hours at the skyline, of the midnight machinery, dripping seas in black, of my own invention. And I would wait for you to come around that corner, out to the balcony, with your hair in your hands beaconing for me to come back to bed, because you knew all the thoughts in my mind and none where worth having in this late, in this night, with this job, with this car, in this place, on this hillside beaconing as well for me to stay. And I would phantom back to your side then remember the child we had on the way, only earlier that day, you told me, and I barely believed the words meant what they did, in this time, in this way. Then maybe on that day we would hold our child and look at him, or her, and you would say something kind and I would agree. And we would live in our house on the hillside for many years and you would still teach children, our children. And I would still get a raise every now and again at the job I would drive to except on tuesdays when we would all stay at home and play and laugh and gather up our dreams in a pot and burry it in the backyard. And our days would still be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. And the kids would still need your love and be grateful. And so would I, after all these years, every-time enough.
Here, on the flatlands
I was put in my place.
formed and pressed
into their neat and presumably safe little box.
It's all they knew.
It is so hard to think of them as once children themselves,
formed and pressed.
Formed from a different time, with different conformists.
There are no manuals when we are born,
you get leftover instructions from previous pipe fitters.
Agrarian raised, like grain fed beef.
Complete with the fears and habits of bygone generations.
I leave one bite of each item on my plate,
with just enough drink to wash it all down.
I have done that as long as I can remember.
I want the whole candy bar, rather than just a bite.
Pressed and formed my Father saves.
He saves twist ties from bread bags.
He saves old welcome mats, and garage door openers.
He buys in bulk, and has two deep freezers full.
Full of freezer burn, tasteless, barely nutritious,
neatly formed and pressed portions of frozen in time Salisbury steak.
It is as if he himself would like to be frozen in time.
He is a depressionite child.
In the basement there is an old dresser that he found at a yard sale.
He painted it a hideous green,
but it has a formed and pressed neat white little doily on top.
In the top drawer there are various expired drugstore items,
some dating as far back as 35 years ago.
"You never know when you might need something in there."
Expired aspirin that has broken down into powder and smells of vinegar.
Vicks Vaporub, in the pretty blue glass jar, that is dried up and orderless.
All brand new and have never been opened.
Formed and pressed neatly in their little containers.
I watch these molders of my life slowly pass away,
becoming neatly formed and packed into their aging corner of the world,
neatly formed and packed into a stereotypical old folks home.
Forgotten, in the way, slow, aching.
Soon all they will have will be memories.
Soon all they will need will be memories.
Neatly formed and packed in their aging minds.
And then, like a comet that has shuttled through space
for thousands of years, millions of years,
they will burn out and fade into dust.
And their whole lives
will be neatly formed and packed
in a trunk
in the attic,
to be opened like a time capsule,
at a later date.
the result of a week with my 94 yr old Parents
This is what I think I want;
A heart that's mine,
Longing to love me and hold me.
I want to watch your eyes light up,
when you see me passing by.
I need you to chase after me,
because you forgot to hug me goodbye.
To tell me this is real,
and you don't want to lose me.
Tell me its okay to cry,
I don't have to do it alone.
Cause you will hold my hand,
and listen to my sorrows.
I want to lie next to you,
and hear you catch your breath;
when I run my fingers through your hair.
I want to catch the shift from sated to desperate.
Take me as you want, I am yours.
Love me recklessly, I beg.
I want someone to call in the night,
Just so I don't feel alone.
Someone to whisper that they miss my smile,
Even as I smile over the phone.
I want to belong to you,
Like you belong to me.
I need you to need me.
an ogre is like an onion
(meaning if you cut me, you'd probably cry
which is probably why i don't worry about being mugged)
because this ogre has layers
and sometimes i can't tell which one is on top.
it takes a moment sometimes to figure out if i'm working my way
down, to the crisp, clear head that i need to feel happy,
or up, building up my flaky shield with lies and acting and moody broody moping.
i shed enough layers in a night to feed a few starving children.
so why does it feel like i never know where i am?
i hold my balance like i'm dancing on the edge of the knife,
hoping that through moving forward
i'll figure something out
and that things will figure themselves out for me.
but how much longer can i spin metaphors and feel sorry for myself
(scribbling words into a notebook only past midnight)
before i split in half on the end of the blade?
i can only hope someone will be there to pick up the pieces.
for a moment, the word stops breathing,
your heart quits pumping and bleeding in the
only healthy way it knows how.
there is silence—and then there isn’t, not anymore,
the sky is shattered by lightning and your
pulse jumps with every rumble, your body flinches with
every roar and the sky is turning far darker than it was a minute before,
the wind is like a turbine, going round and round and round,
tearing, ripping, and seething, you can see the clouds descending,
you’ve been through this time and again and you know the power
this twirling cloud will be rendering, you should be inside,
you can hear Mike Morgan yelling over the static of your TV
“prepare yourselves for the damage this will bring!
hide under mattresses, bathtubs, if you must under the kitchen sink!”
it’s coming your way, it’s picking up speed and you try not to imagine
what has made up the debris, you come to your senses,
realize it’s real, accept the fact that it’s not a drill, you grab who you can,
you shove them down stairs, you start counting heads and start saying prayers,
the cellar is dusty, you choke for clean air but it’s howling outside
and you know you won’t find any out there, metal is screeching,
someone is screaming, sirens are bleating out to anyone who cares,
it takes three men alone to make sure the door doesn’t tear off it’s hinges
in the height of the scare—and suddenly it’s over, you can’t here anything from anywhere.
the world again stands still, but it isn’t holding it’s breath,
it’s watching a thousand electric sparks die a last death.
you push against the doors, you need to breathe better air
and you can hear someone telling you that you need to take care,
but you push and you shove and you break free of your prison,
you climb out to see how your world has faired,
but there isn’t