She dances with her toes pointed
Hands delicate
Arms flowing
Hair pinned up
He watches her with adoration
A bouquet of roses
Card neatly signed
Ring in his pocket
They watch as she moves across the floor
She spins around
Silent and graceful
Eyes shining
The curtain falls and the lights dim
Crowd cheering
Hands clapping
People standing
And behind the curtain, when nobody is watching
She kisses
The woman
Beside her

I wonder does she know
that they live with us -
all my other selves -
over on the stairway is the me that went totally insane
five years ago during the great stress
while I had to keep it together for my family.
He is looking quite relaxed today.
On the sofa is the me that quit his job
to write poetry and become involved in the theater.
( I am surprised he is here - he should be in New York)
Over there is the me that told everyone to *******
and leave me alone.
On the second floor, looking out the bedroom window,
is the me that actually went to find
my birth father and tell him he was a **** for leaving my mother and me.
He is chatting with the me that sent his manuscript out to more than three agents before giving up.
The me that has worked out diligently for the last 30 years, playing football and basketball and soccer is over - no I’m making him up. He doesn’t exist.
They crowd every inch of every room
and more than a few hang from the ceiling
and now all her other selves are moving in as well.

I suppose that’s married life for you.

The smell of coffee and black sharpie fill your senses
Dragging yourself out of bed, you wrap the sheet around your naked body
Your head hurts more with every movement, every thought.

The sticky note on the door
written in small, squished, boy-like writing
"I never promised you forever."

Pull back the curtains
so that the light might mingle with the
dust
Let it soak this room
Ghosts lay strewn
through its matrix
under white sheets of seconds.
Tangled elsewhere cries a man
who dreams in shapes and color
and wakes to darkness
and the comfortable throb
of his phallis
But it is his heart that beats
His tears are made of
illusions
Covered in white sheets of seconds.

465

I heard a Fly buzz—when I died—
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air—
Between the Heaves of Storm—

The Eyes around—had wrung them dry—
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset—when the King
Be witnessed—in the Room—

I willed my Keepsakes—Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable—and then it was
There interposed a Fly—

With Blue—uncertain stumbling Buzz—
Between the light—and me—
And then the Windows failed—and then
I could not see to see—

I pray thee sun thou should set,
or take thy leave better yet,
wouldst at last my thirst be gone,
But alas thee linger, and linger on.

There be no flower not yet dead,
no water flows in yonder river bed.
'Tis a heat where nought doth grow,
nor doth thee ever mercy show.

Dry of skin and parch of throat,
a man doth need no overcoat.
Thy rays doth burn mine eyes,
they do not hear mine mercy cries.

If there be a place where chill be found,
'Tis there it be that I be bound,
A place where there be no burning sun,
show it to me, so to it I shall run.

(c) 26th January 2010
with apoligies to all you Shakespeare freaks

Fragments of you linger in my mind.
In my heart.  On my soul.
Diet Coke and the smell of cleaning supplies.
Bearded men and tie clips.
Cosmic Love.  The Good Days.  Emmanuel.
Watches on the right side.  Red shoes.
Fragments.  Pieces.  Parts.
Not the whole you.
I miss the whole you.
But all I have are the fragments you left with me.