i pace the long way
all the way in the wrong direction
all the way away from them.
everyone i love.
only to walk all the way back

past every hurt feeling
apologizing for every wrong turn
spending time with the people i hate
until i find the one that makes me remember
exactly who i am
expects it of me.
yells.

a long pace.
one thousand miles up and then two back
nothing changed
i still pace
i still worry
and escape from a revisit
the hurt

i used to write
the ink that dripped from my quill
formed paisley and damask on the page
syllables rose from parchment and became tangible

now its just chicken scratch
illegible drivel
carved into chalkboards with dull knives
footnotes to a glorious view

i use to draw, paint, tag
whimsical illustrations or swirly oils
on objects both dedicated and found
a distinct style all my own

but now it's all devolved
mediumless and barren attempts
glaring at a skill long left me
clutching and shivering with a brush

i used to hike
i would traverse a plane or a thicket
at altitude with all teeth showing
looking for a place to set up camp

but now i just pace
wearing a rut between the front and back door
studying a tired environment
peering out the windows

there is no better shoe
breezed and open
leather soles
reeking from my trips
to here
and there
when i go to wash them
on sunday afternoon
i always find a stinging lizard
but i know its mostly my environment
if i could move
should i relocate
there should be far less pain
nothing to ***** about
a new space means
the denial of spiders of the mouth
denial of room temp pasta salad
denial of eat hate pray
please
let me wash your feet

the only thing that i care for
i ran it off
like a tabby in a window begging for a plate of fish
like a beautiful bloom i adored
and never watered
like an open door
steaming in rays from a cresting dawn
thats slammed shut

i keep the plate out now
waiting for a menacing meow
i pour water into the ***
hoping a sprig would spring again
all the doors are open now
even the cabinets
all in vain

god.
now im living begging to be annoyed
wasting potting soil
blinded by golden pain

its now apparent
there is in my midst
one who seeks to usurp
a throne built with my own two hands

not to rest comfortably between
inlaid and intricately carved clawed feet
but to see it empty
for nothing more than the sake of watered down bloodline

yet calmly i tap toe
half impatient and watching
as a small axe hacks away a mighty oak
but not the roots

of the next growth
boughs spring forth more mighty
than the last
from which to fashion not one more but two replacements,
imperial palisades and a porch for a palace,
rocking chairs with armrests,
a mantel and mirror frame

so that we
my queen and i
can be seen together
as we should be
with no hovering specters

i opened my eyes
again
and there existed a black spot
between the north star
and the rolling clouds

i stared into it
deeply
and i followed myself in
to our bed upstairs
and the feathers roll over

i went deeper even
home
and i found me weeping
near the keys that make me
and we rested together again

i knelt yet again
flawless
and you grinned again
fatter than you ever have
and we held hands

i pulled back the curtains
******
and shone in the light
illuminating the dust on the shelf
and we read together

i pulled you through customs
dragged
and we skipped to the gate
shouting over an intercom
and we tugged each the other

we crossed the seas
oceans
and we got lost
wandering and without list
and through this we bonded

we unpacked our bags
furniture
and we certainly shopped
finding a place to call home
and we called a bungalow home

we died together
coughing
and we fixed kosher eggs
making way for the others spirit
and we slept a year through

in the ground

to a dusty shelf I aspire
collected among your beloved works
my spine illegible and creased
pages molded and dog eared
i rest eye level
in your drawing room

i was yours originally
as much as i was my own
no
i was written by a three greats something
a man and a woman
far removed from me now
and was lent to your three greats something
passed down to you
now found cloistered
three shelves down

as per the sensibility
of three greats aunt percy
you would expect the syllables
bound within me
to be replete with ratiocinative reminders
but my binding betrays me not
bloviative bacchanalian blabberings
are the texts contained beyond my cover
but you wouldnt know
the dust proves it

but i dont mind
purely delighted
to be covered in dander
and the skin that used to make you up
that i might be found when you need me
or that i might remain in your family
for at least one more generation
but
if you need a quick ten spot
if youre really hard up for cash
if. you. need. money.
i know a really cute used bookstore