Too many stops. Too many pauses. Too many full stops.

When moments could have flowed fluid

Could have continued along time’s axis to unfurl experiences

Now unknown, now wondered about, now pondered on. I’m not shaken. But it’s never cathartic. It is forever suspense. It is forever remembrance.

It is not regret. I was who I was, and I am who I am. I cannot null that. It is, wishes, perhaps. It is, wanting, to exist as two, to stop, but to continue, to watch, to witness.

I am full stops; given to elective ethos and jittering convictions. And given to these full stops, I wander, wonder, what, what if, should, should have. What? Happens? After?

I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!

I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.

“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!

I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.

I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.

I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.

And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.

Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.

The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.

But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.

To deliver a smile
Is to wrap it nicely
In some soft tissue
Of pale blue
Or, softest hue
Of yellow.

Next, place it in a box,
Cozy,
Small,
Four walls
Fitting To keep it safe.
Four walls fitting to hug it snug.

Then,
mail it to me
or whoever may be
in your mind, cherie.
No qualms because we all need a smile
one that glimmers like jewels in the sunlight.

One that’s as wide,
Stretching as far
as the eyes,
One that sets flutters
all about,
a flap flap flap in the heart.


To deliver such a smile,
Ooh,
I can’t even tell you is a
pure,
thrilling
delight.

Smoothly, she slinks onto the window sill,
silky body settling before tall pane of glass;
Outside, the city’s down and out
Outside, the city’s golden light
and darkest dark.
She curls,
long tail around slick body
and stares out
for the one who stares back.

Tonight,
It’s an empty window opposite,
A single frame of
oh, what her life could be.
She’s never seen more
doesn’t yearn to,
Just for her amore
her golden tabby love.

Ah, there he is,
a pounce atop window sill;
he stares at her
who stares back
his joli chat noir (pretty black cat).

But it’s all too soon
when she’s wrapped in arms too smooth
and a voice,
lacking feline’s purr
slurs,
“Ah, puppy love, Rosette.
It’s all  just puppy love.”

We always did wonder if a piece of her brain fell to her neck
For she did sometimes—oftentimes when things were of great or grave importance,
think and talk through the side of her neck.
It was a condition we had come to diagnose in her quite early,
For she’d **** her head, sing a hum as her eyes wandered following her thoughts
And when she came to, suddenly jumping with a clap of the hands and an “aha!”
We would lean in and listen intently
But she would say something positively ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous!
Like in talking about cicadas and hibiscuses,
She would throw a hippo in there. And like last time, a stinging, mingling mangling ray!
We would all raise our brows and sigh in disappointment.
For that is what you would feel when you oftentimes hear her speak.

But sometimes, it did feel like she'd think with the piece of brain left in her head;
For she was practically logical,
Analytical to a score—sometimes. Less than oftentimes.
Then, she’d place a finger to her temple and her eyes would stare fixedly above at the ceiling or below, at the ground.
And after a while of staying so, she would speak in quite a serious tone and tell us the answer to our inquisition.
Those times, there'd be surprise and awe.
Like in talking about dark matter and soft matter physics, she, after thinking a while, would throw in some astrophysical knowledge.
So, although she'd oftentimes think through her neck, she'd sometimes think through her head;
And that is when we would cheer for her.

But the cheer would hardly be over when she'd say something utterly preposterous that we'd know, for certain, that the piece of brain that fell to her neck when she was born, was rather a large piece.

The very night seems tangible;
something grasped,
But only in memory.
It is interwoven with time,
emotions.
It is threaded tight,
forever tied
to her very thoughts,
her very core.

She won’t ever let it go.

"Peek and retreat
is the term for it.
Is the term for what I do."

"Treating the world to a prime game,
a fine game of relentless peek-a-boo."

Today I put on that perfume
And it hit me
With a memory forgotten;
Sunken at the bottom of the almost empty bottle.
“Mhm, wow you smell so good. What perfume is that?” You had asked.
I’d been over the moon waxing outside. You had tickled my insides.
So when I’d spritzed that on my neck and inhaled that scent and that memory…
I was glad.
Glad that the bottle was finished.
Glad that there was nothing left to remind me of that moment,
Glad that as I tossed the bottle into the trash, I had, in turn, trashed the memory.
The memory sunken at the bottom of that perfume bottle.

"And you,
my dear lady,
are the poem.
I just give it voice."

"Oh! 'Tis great grief,
Wrought by fate's mischief;
To pledge my love by some vow,
Even when Cupid hasn't strung his arrow into his bow."

"Hello, little Little shoulder,
Haven't you seen a bucket of tears over the years?
Or was it?
Was it all just yesterday?"

With eyes upturned to the night's starry sky,
she drew in a deep breath and sighed,

"You know..." She began.
"I wish I could grab a handful of stars
and throw them back into your eyes."

"I can’t figure it out.” She said.
“I like cigars,
and pretty dresses and crossing my legs.”
She paused,
then continued,
“And I like smoking cigars in pretty dresses while crossing my legs.”
She uncrossed them,
then crossed them again.
One smooth limb over the other.
Just like that.

“But I never seem to have a lighter on hand.
Could you— sir,
please light my cigar?”
“You see, I have no pockets to hold such things and my purse…
Well,
You’ve confiscated that, haven’t you?”

“Thanks.” She breathed,
and inhaled,
and exhaled;
Sluggish wisps of smoke dissipating into the air.
Just. like .that.

“I didn’t know L'homme was into women who smoke cigars in pretty dresses while crossing their legs", She said.
“I mean, how was I to know?
I only noticed him noticing me.
It was probably the way my hair was tousled like so,
Or how my lipstick shone a deep, dangerous rogue,
Or the way I sipped at my champagne…
That made him walk over.”

“But I never asked him to light my cigar
Or comment on my dress…
Or stroke my legs.
So when I whacked him up top over the head with my glass,
I bet he never expected it to shatter and split his skull like so.
He dropped so sudden, sir. I…”
Another ringlet of smoke, a sigh, an uncrossing and crossing of legs again.
“I had no clue,
what else to do,
But to sit still in my pretty dress, with my legs crossed, smoking my cigar trying to figure out...
Just how I'd committed ******.”

The scientist moved from table to table, beaker to beaker. She adjusted her goggles on her nose and sniffed, turning a vial on its head, tipping its content into another.
She stood back and with frantic, excited gleams playing in her eyes observed the mixture fizz, fizzle, pop, sizzle and flow over.
She hmmed and this is where I stepped in, asking her, what it is she was doing. What experiment was she carrying out? What question she was attempting to answer.

She, beginning an attempt anew, picked up a vial containing a sweet-scented liquid and stepped up to her table again.
“I’m trying to see...dear. I’m trying to see...”
“See what?”
“The balance. What is the right amount...” She breathed this last sentence under her breath like it was a question more to herself than an answer to me.
“The right amount of what?”
At this, she turned to me.

“Of Love.” She said.
“For you either love too much or too little.
Or you either receive too much love or too little love. And in each case, it leaves a dreadful feeling in one's stomach.
This cannot be healthy. It isn’t. So I must find out this equation, solve this puzzle for it is so perplexing.”
She turned back to her vials and beakers, murmuring under her breath all the while. “It is so perplexing...it is so perplexing...”

“Simple?”
“Me?”
“Simple?”
Life scoffed.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you?”

“Of all the things to call me,
You call me simple?”
She shook her head in disbelief, and said,
“I’m hard,  
I’m easy,
I’m lovable but man!
Can I be hated too!”

She turned her eyes on me and continued,

“I put mistakes in your way to see if you grow,
Knowing you may sink and that might very well be the end of the show.”
I feed you dreams, and wishes
And have you chasing them,
Fully aware that not every dream, not every wish, is attainable.
I’ll have you running circles just to prove your head is ******* on straight,
And God knows, that runs the risk of driving you insane.
You may give me everything, yet still, I'll ask for more
Just to put you to the test, see if you're up to the task.
“I do all this and so much more yet still
you call me simple.”

“Darling,
If I didn’t know any better…,
I would think you nothing but a fool.”

Fear had something to say.
And he wanted to say it now.  
So I paused and told him,
“Go on.”

He said,
“I know I’m weighing heavy on your chest;
I see sometimes it’s hard for you to breathe.”
“You know I can’t leave you alone;
So I at least want to give you this tip.”

“Breathe...”
“And work.”
“Be steady.
Don’t feel like you have to do too much at once.”

“Relax.
Let your chest be unburdened and unbothered.”
“Let it go.”
“And try to regain control.”

“You’re doing just fine.
Doing just great.
I know a few mistakes you’ve made
but you can get back on track and get it made. ”

“Try.
You can try again.
You might make it;
And if not, try again.”

“Get your work out there
And let it be seen.
Try and do that
And get back to me”

And I looked back at Fear
And told him “Sure.”
Turned my back on him
And began my work.

“Dear Inspiration,
I tire of your fleeting ways.
Why don’t you come
And stay, 2, 3 days?”

“I miss you when you’re gone
Though I know you have others to touch upon.
And dream of when I’ll hear your voice...
When it’ll fill this empty space with noise."

"Dear Inspiration darling,
Why won’t you come,
And stay a little more
Than a few, good days?"

“Oh, Cupid!
Give me your bow and arrow
You are doing an absurd job.
How hard is it to hit the heart of my beloved?”

“Here, I’ll shoot it myself.
I’ll aim and let the arrow fly.
Look. Look how it sinks into her chest.
And watch. Watch as she falls head over heels in love with me.”

“Oh, what?
I missed?
Okay.
I’ll try again.”

“No?
Not this time?
Again.
Can I try again?”

“**** it!
Why?
Why won’t it work?
Why can’t I aim right?”

“What?
I can’t control it?
It’s a force beyond my control?
It’s a power I don’t have?”

“Why then?
Why then!?”

“Why did you shoot me?
Why’d you hit me right in the heart?
What was that for, Cupid?
What was that for!?”

“If you won’t hit her...
If I can’t shoot her...
If she will not fall in love with me—
If I cannot make her fall in love with me..."

“Then why?
Why did you aim at me?
What is this sick game you’re playing?
Tell me Cupid, what is it?”

And I look into the depths of your eyes
In search of the truth,
But I can’t read them.
I can’t find anything that makes sense.

I do not know how you feel
Toward me,
Toward us.
So when I look into them,
Gaze into them a little too long,
And you ask me “what? What is it?”
I say “nothing”,
Because I can’t bring my lips to ask
What my eyes wish they could see
And that is: “How do you really feel about me?”

Me and my Imagination,
We have this relationship where it feeds my mind with delicacies so sweet,
So tender,
Unlike anything my eyes have seen, my ears heard,
My nose smelt, my tongue tasted,
My fingers felt.


It dishes out and dishes out and yet I turn its fruits away.
—No, I say to it. I will taste of you later. I have a million and one things to do.


"Like what?" It bellows.
"What else have you to do but set eyes on these things foreign and curious I show you?"
"What else have you to do but meet these characters,
the vulpine elegant, the kind troubled,
the frenzied queen, the servant king?"

"What else have you to do than trod through melting clouds,
Traipse through deep marshes,
Trek through a city as quiet and solemn as a graveyard
and rove through a spring that collapses into a vast, vast transparent sea?"


But I—


"But what!?"
"Are you afraid of me?
Do you not like these travels?
These adventures?
These strange and peculiar wonders!?"


I do but—


"Why do you forsake me?
You trap me!"


Please! Calm dow—


"No! You deprive me!
A thousand stories I have fixed,
A thousand you have thrashed.
If not you, my genius I want the world to know.
My worlds, the world to see!
My characters, man to meet!"


I cannot—


"Enough of you!
Bile, and tar,
and poison and weeds I add to the cauldron!
Mix, mix and steer!
To sicken your thoughts and dreams, day and night, I shall!
'til cold sweat breaks upon your forehead,
and fright amaze your mind 'til pen to paper you put!"

Gloom rocks back and forth in that old rickety chair,
Weaving a noose in her lap when Perfection draws near
Singing a song of cheer.


"Hello, Gloom!" he greets.
"Hello, Perfection." Gloom greets.
"What may I do for you today?"
"No, Gloom." Says Perfection,
"What may I do for you today?"


Gloom sighs. "Well,
Your fingers will do well to weave this noose for me,
Won't they?"


"Aye! They will!
They will knot a noose so fine and well
It will be the finest noose ever woven!"


"Well, yes,
I suppose so.
Here, the noose.
Have a seat,
While I go to snooze."


And upon getting the noose,
Perfection weaved...
And weaved...
And weaved...


"Curse it! No good!"
I must unravel this!"
And unravel this, he did.
And his fingers went to work a while.

"Ahhh...look! A piece of fiber!
If not perfect, I will be seen a fibber!
I'll weave this again!"


"And again!"


"And again!"


"Oh, no!
Not quite yet.
Argh! my brow has broken a sweat!"
Time and time I have spent!
Why will this noose not be perfect?"


"Oh, Gloom...
Her work imperfect be
And now mine alike.
Oh no...
I cry. I cry.
I'll tie this noose and die!"