Apathy rots...
What will it take
To awaken you
When you've lost faith in dreams?
When sleep is a warm amnesia
Nothing more
Granted, a good thing
For a wise old man
Whose mind is stuffed with memories
A good thing
For a tired old soul
Weighing experience on rusty scales
Whose biggest regret
Is having succumbed to apathy
Realizing, too late,
What a weak enemy it is
How easy it would have been
To conquer and subdue it
To bend it to the will and tame it
It couldn't be all that hard
But you have barely set off on the journey
You can offer advice to no one
Even as you take no advice from anyone
Who convinced you your soul was black?
Do you think there will ever come a day when
You will forgive him
You will forgive her
For lying to you?  

"It is better to have loved and lost
Than to never have loved at all"
What a **** shame William's wisdom
Has been relegated to the status of a Hallmark greeting card  
Where so many people laugh and snicker
So secure in their smug little minds
That they have a ******* clue what it really means
That they don't have a use for this kind of optomistic philosophy
Or the sad sacks who just don't get it
Who can't look past their pain and bitterness
To grasp it's prophecy
Who won't swallow the pill because they just don't want to
Even if they know
(as they all do)
That it's a cure

Me?
I'm powerless
I WISH I didn't care
But that's a death wish
I'm a child who loves his toys
I don't want them taken from me
Christmas is around the corner and you know what that means
That's right!
MORE TOYS!!!

I made a wrong move
and they all shifted to me,
gazed,
glazed,
unrelenting.
Their hollow, black portals
revealed their concealed minds
filled with disgust
and malice.
The same action a million times over,
and they never act upon their desires,
because they know this scars me more.

"Time flowing in the night"
                           Alfred Lord Tennyson

"Have I dreamt my life, or was it a true one?"
                           Walter Von der Vogelweide


Look for the sleepers on
Their backs, eyes closed,
Their palms upturned to sacrifice
Their dreaming bodies to the night.

Not knowing that even as the
Sun rises wearing a halo of liquid gold,
And as their long dark lashes lazily open,
They are not waking from their dreams.
Outside the hummingbird whirring in
Dizzying aeronautics, and the barn owl
Shutting its fierce yellow eyes

Are dreams too;
All dreams.

The morning routine:
The taste of honey and oats
On the tongue, the orange-yellow
Melon scooped and swallowed hard,
Waking the senses; the bitter coffee,
The slightly burned toast

Dreams,
All dreams.

It was a book delivered to him
By a misty-eyed stranger in rags
Who spoke but a few words barely
Audible and, with a toothless grin,
Hobbled away, though his gait was
Somehow a noble one.
This had happened a few nights ago,
Only the book remained unopened,
He was too tired at the end of the
Day and there was work to do in
The fields and that stubborn tractor
Breaking down each midday.

It was last evening that his curiosity
Got to him and he kicked off his
Work boots and sat with it in the
Reclining chair; he put on his spectacles
And began to read.
He was not a reader much; his time
Reading was mostly spent on the
Good Book, which he found somewhat
Difficult to stay focused on.
But this book was different: he was
Engaged after the first sentence.
There was a stirring in his chest
And he intuited from the incredible
Words that there was something here
That was true.
He read until the moon was high
In the night sky and he turned the
Last page at sometime after midnight,
Falling into an easy sleep in which
He dreamed that he was a Persian
Prince and each night he was told
A story by a beautiful girl. He KNEW
that he was dreaming and he knew
There was such a thing as magic, even
In his mundane world.

Now the sun in a heat haze.
The old chipped weathervane on the
Tin roof of the barn, casting a long
Shadow on the rows of wheat,
Waiting to be harvested.
As he climbed onto the rusty
Tractor he felt a sense of wonder
Present in all these things.
As the old tractor belched and
Caught fire, he had the thought
That if he was still dreaming,
As the book had said, he felt more
Awake than he had ever been in
His life.

i know i saw you weeping in the rain,
you flagged a ***** yellow taxi,
climbed in the back and sped away.

i know i saw you weeping in the rain,
in one sad eye and out the other,
and i never even knew your name.

___

visual imagery:
http://beautyineverything.com/4954403808

Crisp, the fallen leaves now pile,
the times are changing, Autumn-style,
breezes rake the tippy-tops of trees,
bare branches rattle like skeleton keys.
Subtle September has come once again,
tipping its hat to the Summer's end,
makes clear and crisp the evening air,
the harvest season now sidles near,
grass and weeds will wither dry,
scythes and sickles swing low and high,
gourds of pumpkins soon will burst in patches,
fat apples drop down cider-press hatches,
so soon those sugary coats of frost shall rise,
and sharp, chilly winds will sting teary eyes,
fruit pies will bake, brown nuts will roast,
glasses of wine shall arise in toasts,
to the approach of yet another Fall,
before the stark-white of Winter blankets all.

bottomless.

I never end.

I never began.

I give
           a n d
                      I will keep on giving.

...

repetitive.

dry.

eternally cloudy skies.
with a chance of rain.

no more sunny days.

simply,

superficial.
reeking of worldly successes.

failing to fail at anything at all.

endless.

listen:

"young. promising. driven."

the truth:

empty. silent. a puppet. puppeteer?

...

drained.

But,

no one can stop me.
no one can save me.
no one can stop me.
no one can save me.

save me.

no one can save me.
no one can save.
no one can.
no one.

bottomless.

I give
           a n d
                     I will keep on giving.

after.

after?

wars.
disappointments.

even after this broken heart.

...

no one hires for the heart.
salary isn't determined by sincerity.

no one can stop me.
no one can save me.
no one can stop me.
no one can save me.

no one.

not.
even.
myself.

My face distorted,
my mouth twisted and
shrieked under the broken remnants
of night.

I shook, shook, shook.
I finally wasn't numb.

Be thankful you didn't see her.
her face did shatter,
her fragile frame quaked,
in her driver's seat immobile,
directionless once again.

We talked outside of coffee shop,
she was cute,
I looked like hell.
"No, no you can't."
She said in reference to my eye's honesty.
"I was supposed to be strong."
She quivered,
Her mouth locked open,
she was more real than I had ever seen her,
through her cracking voice
she spoke with absolute wisdom,
and it magnified my misery.

The previous night found us
on the stairs outside my apartment.
We smoked,
she started a heavy talk,
I was relaxed,
introspective,
ready to release the last
bit of cancer she swore
she could eat.

Two moments cut deeper than
anyone has ever cut me.

The first was when she released
a melancholy howl,
and spit, "You're my best friend"
through the tears and the runoff
from her nose.

The second is when she threw the bracelet.
The reminder would be too much,
then she somehow slipped the "Be the change" ring
into my back pocket.

I didn't want them as reminders either.

I put them next to the mosaic she made me.
The one I never bought a frame for,
the one that pleaded our favorite Beatles track,
"Don't Let Me Down".

I built her up
to let her fall.

A Tower of Babel to wreck through
                                                         ­               secrets,
                                         ­                               nomadic revelry,
                                                        ­                and speaking in barricades.

Just like any other town, except the middle school is in an old strip mall, selling free education. The bank advertises a “Kalachi Festival” and nothing else, not low interest loans or free checking. The streets are lonely, but then again, it’s Sunday morning and most are at church. Where I’m headed, riding passenger, just for you. I hate riding passenger, but I’ll let you wear the pants today, I’ll stick to my fifties inspired floral skirt and clichéd pink teddy bear sweater. We arrive. Nine-thirty on the dot. Right on time, you say “I told you we wouldn’t be late.” I roll my eyes and breathe deep as I open your car door. We walk across the gravel lot to a low lying building. Church. No loud music or free coffee to hide behind. No large crowds or jumbo screens. Just people. We go into a classroom. Read from the bible. Meet people whose names I promptly forget. But that’s okay, they forget me too.
We finish on the gospel of John. And take a bathroom break, I take a while, not willing to endure the awkwardness that is sure to occur if I exit before you do. I stare at my reflection and regret my eyeliner. I’m glad I wore flats, not heels, and feel a bit overdressed to be honest. I exit, after using hand sanitizer as hand soap, realizing, then proceeding to wash my hands again. You’re talking to an elderly woman, she’s small, fragile. I hug her awkwardly, I’m terrible at meeting people. Another deep breath. Your father comes into view. What if he hates me? What if you realize you’ve made mistake? What if I accidentally say ****? ****. ****. ****. Deep breath out. Shake hands, smile and greet awkwardly, yet again. Meet Pearl and Ruby. The Two Jewels of the church. Meet Leonard. Joke with leonard, Think of my grandfather and how I should call him. Mentally punch myself in the arm. Greet your mom, get told I’m pretty, laugh, not knowing what to do.
I sit next to Alanna and the *** Smoking boyfriend, Scott. Sing. Pray. You do announcements. Everyone takes communion, Myself included. You pray, with such conviction and belief I’m confused. I put on the pious face for the congregation. Look innocent. Observe. Sing again. No instruments, only robust voices, all together. Your hand is in mine for the sermon. Finding it hard to concentrate, I notice the approximate age and décor of the church. Probably mid-late seventies. The Mauve carpet reminds me of my mother. She loved mauve in the 90’s, when it was popular. Exposed beams make it feel more like a chapel. They remind me of my church at home. There’s a choir section, making me realize it could have been another church at some point, you don’t have choirs. The sermon’s finished. Your hand has left red marks on mine, small ovals that you fuss over. We make our way out of the church. The last to leave. Following your parents home.
You lived in the country. In a wooden house that reminds me of my first house in Perry. Covered in dark wood. Your kitchen reminds me of my mother, covered in sunflowers, her favorite. You give me a quick tour.  The art that covers the walls of your home is yours and your siblings. I’m amazed. We clomp down the stairs; “they’re extra steep” you warn. Your mother’s preparing lunch. I contemplate offering to help, but don’t want to look like an *** if she says yes and I mess something up.
We retire to the living room with your father. He asks about my family. My parents, an Engineer and a Marketing Director. He asks about their expectations for me. Asks me if I live in the country, No, I reply, I live on the golf course. His eyebrows raise further. ****. I should have left that out. He thinks I’m wealthy. I’m not, neither are my parents. Mercifully we get called in for lunch. Roast, salad, corn, cantaloupe, potatoes, I love home cooking. You peer pressure me into cheesecake. Your father suggests you take me to the pond. You think twice. Taking in my shoes and skirt. We go anyways. Kiss as soon as we’re out of sight. I wish we could just lie down beneath a tree and sleep. We walk back to the house. Collect groceries and money, Even me. We go to the car. Drive away. You’re tired. So am I, we fight a little on the way back, mostly joking. We fall into bed and sleep away the morning. Which you say went well, I’m still unsure.

You wish not to take my heart
  when you die –
Lying on a hospital bed, you pray
  while holding my hand.
You wouldn’t take my heart, you
  can’t, I’ve lost it long before I
knew I am going to lose you.
   I didn’t say anything.

Death is hard, saying Goodbye is
  harder, but Letting go,
it is the hardest.
  I don’t see how I can.

They said there’s nothing left
  for me to do but pray.
Except I don’t believe in God,
  yet I hope you enter Heaven.
You told me it’s a place of lonely
  peace, and you will love
me again upon my shoulders.
  I didn’t feel anything.

You’re not an angel, but you’re
  the Closest thing to Heaven
I’ve ever touched.
  I wish I believed.

It's a sad life when you spend your childhood licking knives
and you wait in the rain for hours, and you always get hurt,
and your moms dead, so you live with your dad,
but you can't afford band-aids.

I've been keeping myself busy lately so that I don't have to think about anything,
I've been thinking too much,  and that doesn't get me anywhere.
I made some money the other day, I still don't have a job,
but it was good money, and I bought some more books,
and I got a new journal.
I feel like writing in it again, maybe if I get my thoughts down I wont be thinking so much.

I've been avoiding other people lately,
but the loneliness is starting to get to me,
there's this point where it begins to eat away at you like the delete button, it's terrifying.

I was looking at the moon last night,
and it was too bright for me to handle.
I kept thinking that I wanted to sew my eyes shut,
and I wasn't wearing any underwear,
and I was really hungry.

I've been feeling so old lately.

I've been clipping my nails in bed,
and I haven't vacuumed since you left,
but I never did anyway, that was always you,
same with the dishes.
I ended up breaking those,
I think the song I was listening to was too sad,
and it took control, and I lost myself.
I'm sorry, I hope you're not mad.
Would it be weird if I started to cry?
I think I might cry.
I'm happy though, I swear I'm happy.
Oh God, I hope I'm happy.

My hair is longer now,
I've been too tired to cut it,
and a little scared, because I know you like to cut hair.
I guess you could say I'm saving it for you,
even though I didn't save some other things,
more important things.
I keep remembering all these lies I told you,
and I've been writing them down,
trying to figure out how I could make up for them.
I guess I can't.
Okay,
I think I'm going to cry-

I tried to read your pretty words,
but I was too distracted by happiness.
I wanted to take a picture,
but they don't sell my size film anymore.
And as I listened to the songs you shared with me,
I realized that anyone could like the same ones,
and that I was silly for thinking I was in love.

It made me think about that night with the guy I just met,
how his car was cold and I kept shaking,
and the music was really bad,
but I kissed him anyway.
Then afterwards on the way home,
I kept thinking about how beautiful you are,
and about how I wanted to see you that night.
How I still haven't gotten the chance to see the color of your eyes for myself.

I wrote some letters this week,
I want to write them to you too,
or maybe I'll call you,
I haven't heard your voice enough,
and I've almost memorized what I've heard already.

When I saw you drawing that hand,
I wished it was my hand,
and I wished you would reach out and hold it
as if you've held it a million times before,
but it meant more than anything to you,
and I wished that you would dream about the softness.

I feel like I should be embarrassed,
but I doubt you even check these anyway.

bye.