If pressed, I wouldn’t say that I’m unhappy
To leave one home for another,
But that I’m living in the future
And thusly have no control over my surroundings,
For they do not–might not ever–exist, and the I today and the I of June
Are distant relatives.
So, if further proposed the question
Of whether or not I grieve,
I’d reply that this town is like a loved one
Who I shall only visit on leap years,
And decisions are as deaths.
When I go, I’ll leave a piece behind forever.
If asked, I might not disclose
That the fresh wound of impatient joy harbors a quiet fear
Of disappearing into Ventnor City
From the hearts of those who are still in mine.
Yet, should one wonder
If I might reconsider,
I’d reply that decisions are as new lives.
When I arrive, I’ll weep with uncertainty.
I’ll meet the I of June on the shoreline.
I’ll feel the boardwalk under my feet and realize, with a start,
I’m home.
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 7:40 PM UTC
I thought it was
The future, waiting on a distant head.
A lush eventuality
Crept towards me in the daylight, permitting me
To see the body behind the face. I imagined it
To be reaching out
And clung to windy weather, assured that
We would meet one another
In the middle.
We never met,
But it stole the sun.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 3:17 PM UTC
Morning mist drips down my skin;
Curls my strands about its fingers.
Memories: I’ll recount to you how they wrapped me up
Like a present, in warm winter cloudy skies, early enough
To be alone with that sweet recollection of the walks we took.
The imprint of your hand…
I’m bewitched to say it’s still there.
The scent of you, in weather like this,
Is new, like freshly showered brown hair.
Our time apart will simply let me
Appreciate you more, the next time I see you.
So don’t wait up. I’ll dawn my shoes,
Pick up my pace, and run right through
The next few months, to you.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
A dream—
Perhaps it was nothing but a dream, though how real.
How real the gardens of childhood seemed
As they appeared to me, a sea of flowers:
Rubies and emeralds, with golden leaves.
And beyond the gates I saw you, ethereal arms outstretched,
As if to embrace me,
So full of life, it was difficult, though I remembered—
I remembered you were no longer that glittering garden.
Your leaves and petals were cold and black…
Vessels for forbidden memories.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
Within that circle, I saw my forgotten mask.
That space between grace and emptiness: it held everything.
From words of silk and plastic, it changed.
Stagnant hearts and lucky spades,
And diamonds shattering titanium clubs:
I’d watched them all within that space, with a smile upon my untarnished mask.
The circle expanded and began to spiral,
Taking on the world as a whole.
Pieces of cards; the truth…if only
They were in my favor.
Without the past, I held the pieces apart,
And the shimmering came to a close in the mist.
And pain seemed to twist into a calmer storm,
Passing over like an expression.
Believing in the eyes is futile when all you see are jokers.
So, the curse returns with greater force,
And the starry-eyed wound shines again.
I speak of old friends, but they do not speak of me.
They slip away like glass: quick and slicing,
Become gentle before falling into the future, and look not back.
Now, they’re just distorted sentences,
But no truer words would be spoken.
The acme of deluded water; the pinnacle of spices in fruit;
The youth in all that has withered:
They surrender to the daybreak which refuses to repair itself.
Evening calls. Do not terry,
For all is fruitless in this space: this space between self and other;
This mask before the stones of dysphoria;
The pieces of old toys, scattered across the world.
But still, ah, if only…
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
In scrawling minor compositions,
Perhaps I now confirm
The scaling, swelling suppositions:
My residential term.
Fixated to the melting ***
My skin begins to squirm.
A duty to complete the plot.
Write, rinse, repeat.
Permit the fertile heart to rot.
Of all, my greatest feat
Was rearranging the pieces of mind,
Though the chest had ceased to beat.
Were I to leave them behind
(The colorful personas with whom
I’ve lived in kinship and kind:
The fruits of my creative womb),
They’d surely tread ahead in advance,
Before the sky could reach full bloom.
And when locked within a fictitious dance,
Each step to completion livens.
Cue a heartwarming, back-leading romance;
Take the hand of the contrivance.
Clad in black and instinct raw,
Grin in hand, mask the connivance.
Let barely slip the partial law
Of clinging to reality,
And delay, in turn, the denouement:
The fairness of causality.
I press my hand to a paper cheek
And grant it immortality.
At the height of passion, it seems to peak
The formation of each smiling crack.
Gift me the insanity to speak
To the fantasized cul-de-sac.
And yet, I again become human
When it does not answer back.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC