my feelings don’t stop
they run and run like water from the faucet
into the bath you prepared for us
and by the time you and I get in the tub
it overflows
lavender scented bubbles coating the white tiles of your floor
I try to clean it up but the ground just gets sticky
and I feel your eyes
bore into the back of my head
as I mop up the leftover bath salts with your faded, yellow towel

another kind act of yours ruined by my worries

i can feel your hand loosening its grip around mine
as we step onto the subway platform
and you don’t grab at my waist
while I make oatmeal in your kitchen
like you used to
back when my bruises were endearing
and I was light and new

but my emotions peek through the cracks
that past lovers left inside of me
the hole my father made in my heart
when I was 8 years old
occasionally shows itself when you ask why
I can no longer drink orange juice in the morning

and when the sun makes it way through the curtains
and shines onto my body
it’s easy to see all the pieces broken inside of me
and suddenly i'm not the dream you thought I was

time has melted into molasses and i
am lost in the meaninglessness
of artificial
pleasure.
every truth scrapes
my stomach like shards
of glass
in the mirror i broke
denying myself.
identity is what you
call it, what you see,
what you allow
yourself
to be.
someone told me if you
drink too much honey all
at once
you die, it clogs your throat
and you choke because air
can't get through
all the honey.
i wonder if the same is true
for molasses.
time has melted and i
hold the flame, this spoonful
of molasses
sits on my tongue
until
i forget
my name.

it is colder here and the news comes even colder
listened and changed to the music channel

seems it was some years ago i saw the glass opera live

memories reminded via my internet web, unnecessary

as curled round the past coils back into mind until tea
prompts the fingers into drawing it out
on screen

it is settled here now into the patterns and lines
i drew some time back and am now filling in the
background

it makes a muddled picture

some say i have not found my voice yet
as things keep changing
as the colours move

as the seasons roll round

yet

my work on the decline and fall
was chosen
this week



vertigo

piercing eyes
burn straight through me.
i feel exposed
and peeled open,
as my last rational thoughts
drizzle through the gaps
between my fingers
and pile up on the ground
like wet sand.
i take my shaky steps
like the earth is depending on me
to prevent her from quaking.
and as the hands on the clock
reach out to strangle me,
i break a sweat
and try to choke out words.
i fail,
and the judging eyes judge.
the fragile silence is broken by whispers.

here we like the ordinary

travelling to such places
yesterday
though

bala became extraordinary
the trees come gold
dark birds flocking

down the centre of town
an avenue in fall

and the day came divine

so much changed since the
birth day

so much improved yet
the past remembered
the now appreciated

even with the current
issues

really
it must be the time of year
this restlessness and reflection

mirroring
here and there

here we have changed our seating
to face the fire and candle, the house

cat joins us
except there is only me
when i say we it is a habit
gone on long

and

we don’t mind

it is comfortable here

my mind keeps getting snagged,

catching on these fictions,

concoctions –

I see her
in the night
tearing into the undressed hind of the ram
like a fresh-gouged slice of honeydew melon

the pulp of his flesh red,
trickling off the slant of her lips

I think I'd offer her the cimeter
and use of the free oven

but I'm not sure it's the meal she's after

I know you know
this universe is old
and life is but a wrinkle
in time and me, I’m
not yet a twinkle
in my long gone father’s eyes
compared to those blinking night
skies, but let me tell you
friends,  when the fog
rolls in off of Dead Woman Shoals
all damp and **** cold
as the nose on my black dog
when it calls out to the moon
its mouth a deep hole, dark
as doom, a howling for
a galaxy, a dying star born
to be swallowed
bones all ribbed and rowed
a wind chime clacking
on the back porch alone
when nary a breeze blows.