my town
where wild flowers grow
between tram tracks.
there was a time when
it was hardly morning,
no bridge into daylight.

walls had ears,
neighbors had eyes
whispering behind the curtains
there was an emptiness in the guts
of the city
and poetry locked in the drawers,
Borges was read under the blankets
while Dostoievski was  a comforter:
demons were embedded.

yeah, people were clapping and smiling
watching the nub of history, numb
they had a life to live,
what can you say?

one day the radio
burst on in the streets
some were shivering in the attic
"we are free", they said
"we are free",
came the echo in trance

"shhhhh"! said others,
let us wipe the blood
don't disturb the sacrificed
so we can sleep
without dreams

it's Thursday in my town
streets are weary
and our souls are
slowly expanding

oppress not upon me your breath
the poison of my solitude
drunken eyes between stilled lines
the strain met by visions of twisted stars
and swaying valleys
like the waves crashing over jagged rocks
turning freedom into smooth lines

my well has begun to dry
the water seeping through the growing cracks
burrowed by the little mice
who carry away the pieces of my structure
allowing the seepage to continue on
until all that's left is dust and bone
my tongue of sand
weighted against formerly flowing words
drowning on the dryness
of severed ties
the water disappoints
now surely i must leave

Darkness.

He settles on my skin like an absent touch; His hands the hands of a past love tracing my outline and raising my skin.

He whispers to me in dreams. What was once, and what could be, he lingers in the thoughts I can't control.
He breathes silence in the space between us, enclosing every inch of my body in his icy exhalation.
He is the coldest of comforts.

He is fearful, but I do not fear him.

His chasm of understanding and attentiveness is an infinite book of blank pages to be filled. He hears me. He listens.

He Is the giver of time that nobody wants. He provides. When I am at war with my thoughts at 3 AM, he is on my side.
He does not lie, unless it is along side of me. On top of me. All around me. He is consuming.  

He is untrustworthy, but I have given him mine.

He is the quietest of melodies. His song cradles me into sleep, and I feel him beside me as I drift away.
When I awake in the morning he has always left, but is never really gone.
In the brightest of rays, I can still see him.

He controls me like an illness, but only with my consent.

Darkness.
If ever I wanted to leave him, would he let me?
Could I cleanse my soul after his touch?  
If I ignored his approach in the eve,
would he still be kind to me when the daylight faded?


I'm afraid to find out.

Fed up with the ways of men,
I decided to create my own,
And he would be perfect.

I took a chunk of wood and began to carve,
My knife coaxing each perfect body part into existence:
Dark eyes
Full lips
Broad shoulders
Long legs
Strong hands
And a perfect...well...you know.

Then I carved the magic word into his chest
And he became flesh.

He did everything a woman wanted:
He listened well
Never talked back
Never got mad
Made love on command
And said those words we all crave
"I love you"

All with eyes as empty as bottomless pits.

Nose so hard to the grindstone my face is unrecognizable and I seem to have lost my dignity out of my ears I’m not quite sure what to do with the breathing spaces between periods anymore. I lost my art like people lose keys and I’m sure it’s still under the couch but I just don’t see it anywhere.
They should call it a writer’s monolith because of its worshipful insurmountability; I sat there beating on it with my bare hands until they were ****** arm and hammers freshening up my mind and I was free, free from art.
And of course that’s when my life fell apart and my self-harm came from the grindstone, ignorantly pressing inputs for a desirable output I feel like my soul was numbed.  Part of me walked away in outrage at the boldness of this new survival style because there was no life.
As college kids we joke about no-lifing to get work done but what happens when you no-life life? It would explain the singularity roughly two inches under my left lung.
Sleep still comes difficult to me.
Love,
Alex