11-7-12

These streets and hidden walkways are my mischief parody now. A mockery of what this city had been to me, a false harken to nothing better yet still...her and me...and us and them...we could of been so grand if things had just fallen better.

I would have that job at some cubicle in some skyscraper and you would work in the schools with the kids who needed your love and they would struggle and be grateful. Our days would be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. Then in the evenings I would pace my way home, to our home, the one on the hillside, with a window and balcony overlooking everything. And we would have a daughter and a son in the works and make love on a whim, enough love for the both of us every-time. And you would spill your day in front of me, everyday and I would never grow tired of any of it. And then in the morning I would rise quiet not to wake you and boil a full *** of coffee, not the expensive kind but just coffee, and read my paper on the warming kitchen table. I would read of politics and people and cats in trees and drink another sip. And you would wake and peek around the corner showing only a quiet smile and at my sight you sat and gently nursed the cup I had already poured for you. Still silent you would crawl into the chair as shiver ran down your spine, revealing the winkles in your face as you puckered but returned to the sereneness that was your always-expression, the same creeping smile that asked nothing but gave so much. [As you ask] Soon I tell you the happenings of our world and paint you the window I had only just read. Piecing together my words in bundles of sage breviloquence, still sifting through the chalky pages as you sighed in such sunrise-joy. And you would leave early as I left not to soon after and we both drove our own cars and parked them at our work and went about our day. And I would drive home from my cubicle to our house on the hill with our plan for a daughter and make love to you in many places, wait for you to go to sleep and find my way out to the balcony. And I would look for hours at the skyline, of the midnight machinery, dripping seas in black, of my own invention. And I would wait for you to come around that corner, out to the balcony, with your hair in your hands beaconing for me to come back to bed, because you knew all the thoughts in my mind and none where worth having in this late, in this night, with this job, with this car, in this place, on this hillside beaconing as well for me to stay. And I would phantom back to your side then remember the child we had on the way, only earlier that day, you told me, and I barely believed the words meant what they did, in this time, in this way. Then maybe on that day we would hold our child and look at him, or her, and you would say something kind and I would agree. And we would live in our house on the hillside for many years and you would still teach children, our children. And I would still get a raise every now and again at the job I would drive to except on tuesdays when we would all stay at home and play and laugh and gather up our dreams in a *** and burry it in the backyard. And our days would still be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. And the kids would still need your love and be grateful. And so would I, after all these years, every-time enough.

I can read your mind,
through the prism in your eyes.
I can see the reflections that seems narrow,
and the brightness of sorrow.
The fear of mortality,
that shines in your sighs,
and detests your reality.

You've collapsed to ambitions,
losing a battle
far from the lands and
that rests in your soul of civilisation.

fight from this dread,to find a way.
fight like u do to overcome your ogre.


You might wonder at the blank sky,
that seems to choke of stars
that'll call upon u to pry.
You fear of the answer that lurks,
the questions that bite you deep,
and gives u a crunch.



fight from this dread,to find a way.
fight like u do to overcome your ogre.

A month passes. I've gone on a date with a girl named Destiny. We ate and had a couple drinks, then I asked her if her real name was Destiny. She tells me of course it is with her face all twisted. I couldn't tell if she was angry, intrigued, or disgusted. A few more drinks and the night goes on like that. What I mean is that we talk about our parents, where we went to school, and what we do to make money. Her hand sat on the table in the lamplight looking like an invitation. I took it and she let me. It had been a while since I had felt somebody else's skin on mine.
I remember her ***** blonde, shoulder length hair and her smooth, light skin like a doll in a toy shop window. Her frame from the front and the back was nice. It was the first thing I noticed as I walked up to her from behind when we met at the restaurant. I didn't scare her, if that's what you were thinking. What I did was politely put my hand on her shoulder and ask her if she was indeed Destiny. The whole engagement was lacking any true spontaneity anyway. The dots were all connected beforehand. I took that as a bad sign. I guess she did too.
Claire continued to text me, but I let them sit there, buzzing away on my night stand. I hadn't heard from Hane once after we had spent the afternoon together and talked about Claire. I didn't put much thought into not hearing from Hane. I only did when I heard from Claire. That was a diseased connection I never wished to be tied to. Part of me wanted to answer, to solve things, to fix things, to make everything better, but my vision of perfection were petty illusions of grandeur. There were other lives to worry about. Other souls to carry through a field of poppies to a dock by a river with a ******* boat bobbing alongside it.
After a fury of texts the night before from Claire, Hane calls me the next day while I'm on my break at work. I'm surprised to see his name on the screen of my phone. It's been a month. My first thought is that he knows about Claire texting me at night, so I brace myself for anything as I head outside to the smoking deck. The sun blinds me as I walk outside. They're used to the fluorescents overhead nine hours a day, not natural sunlight. I've missed his call, so I call him back, slightly hoping he doesn't pick up. He does.
"Yo," he says, "I just called you."
"I'm at work."
"Oh. I'll call you later then."
"We're good," I tell him, trying to cut him off before he hangs up, "I'm on a break. We're good."
"Oh, cool. How much longer you work for?"
"Couple hours. I should be off around 3:30. Where you at?" I ask. I hesitate to light a cigarette for fear of missing anything he may say.
"I'm in the city looking around for a job."
"Jesus," I say, "I never thought I'd hear you say that."
"Thanks," he laughs.
"You just rarely ever have a job."
He laughs lightly again and coughs. There's a long silence where we both wait for the other to say something. After a beat, I ask, "What's up?"
"Claire had to get going."
"What do you mean?"
"She wasn't happy anymore and she had to go. She left."
"****," I exhale, "I'm sorry to hear that, man."
"There's something not right about it."
"I'm off work around 3:30. Where you going to be around then?"
"Don't know. I'll be in the city, probably. I'm just walking around."
"I'll come get you wherever you are. I've got a car."
"Alright," Hane says, distracted. I can tell he's looking at something that has nothing to do with what we're talking about.
"I'll call," I tell him. I fix a cigarette in my mouth and light it. "Make sure to pick up when I call, alright?"
"Yeah," he says, "Yeah."

The night is nigh too close for
The weathered sword of her love hangs
Like a pendulum in stormed' weather.

Break fast, the leather neath' her eye
Is worn two years far the past.
Since then, since her daughter passed,
Thoughts are merely illusory illusions.

She swears love and fear are the same.
I tell her different, though she swears by it.
In her eyes though, I can see the damp sweat
Of the beat of a million lost battlefields,
A dying trumpet call sounding for every forgotten solider.

Laying there, cramped and despaired',
I wonder if her father knows what he has done.
There are scars so deep they turn invisible;
Cuts so long they are but miles on an infinite cloud.
Each pasture holds its fruit until it is time to pick.

At night, the fields glow like stars wilted on the waves of the ocean.
We are men with tepid souls waiting for our loneliness to be broken.
A stern hand, a fatherly hand, a grip that said, Speak when spoken.
Great clock. Golden hands. Spinning for all that see that land.
No peace shall we find with God. Peace rests solely in our skinned' hand.

A broken neck sleeps with the dirt,
And though I hurt, I rest inside of the mud,
Receiving golden studs from horses whose names
Are not the same as the Gods I was brought up with.

Belts bend with the bullet crazed war so long
As the generals have their milk, their maidens, and their pudding.
She bends her brow toward the table, where I soon see
Her misfortune of antiquated loyalty.

Some men are born to be together.
Some men are born to be alone.

Since then, the hens lay their silver eggs like war chores.
An exhale and the tenses go all soft in the smoke.
She cries like she's never experienced pain before, yet I know,
Human beings were born to go through such a blow.
Create yourself from the clay,
Laying waste to all hands that touch thee' in their minds eye.

Due daises dare to stake the fake
That rests between the cracks of the chosen seed.
My oil, pressed black and clean like laundry,
Reminds me of a man named David - a ***** townie.
Since when have I then addressed love as a real thing, since now?

Tangible, we are.
Infallible, we are not.
Infinite, some are.
Forgettable, we all are.

Let our tags wear with the salt water
Of the ocean, the Earth, the millennia;

Till our
Time to
Burn has

Come.

I like your skin
when it is covered in goose bumps
I like to stroke my fingers
lightly,
lightly
over the surface
and feel changes

I like your skin
when it is rough
I like to examine your calloused
hands, and hold them
so tight,
so tight
it reminds me of your past
and how you survived

I like your skin
when it is freckled
I like to look at the map it makes
next to my skin, where we match
perfectly,
perfectly
I wonder where we'd go
if we followed our flesh

I like your skin
when it is wet
I like the way the water runs
between us, but never washes off
our love,
our love
I like when it shines
but even in the secret dark

I like your skin
when it is touching mine
I like how you feel my heart,
shoulders, stomach, thighs,
and the rest of me so
slowly,
slowly
I like when there is no space
between ourselves

I like your skin
when you like mine
I like how my smile makes yours,
and how my laugh does that too
I like the way I tickle your knee
over,
and over,
I like when you kiss my skin,
and know it is your skin too

Memories
These diaphanous things
With a hand outstretched
We grasp onto them
But they slip through our fingers
Into oblivion
To the land of the lost
And forgotten

The thought of you
Hooks into my flesh
And suspends me
Just above the surface
Of the waters of unconsciousness.

The mists above the surface tease my lips,
Thirsting for the stilled depths
That lay just beyond their reach.