You imagine
she still lies there,
still having made love
has that satisfied look,

that we did it
once more gaze.
All gone now,
all in former days.

The house has long
been sold, others
live there now;
the bed long gone,

gone for scrap
or firewood,
at least that
wooden frame.

You think on
that peasant way she had,
the lifting up
of legs and thighs,

the brightening up
of those liquid eyes,
the play of smile
upon her lips,

then love making over
and resting side by side,
that sense of
we did it again,

a little adolescent pride.
Death had her marked out
even then you guess,
cancer making plans

of conquest,
ticking time,
the clocks all set,
an all off certain bet.

And yet,
still you think her there,
laying abed,
eyes bright,

legs and thighs lifted,
the lips pursed
to kiss,
all love talent gifted.

Gone now,
some resting place
marked and squared off
for some to see,

flowers bought and laid,
attention and respect paid;
but where she's rested
you don't know,

no last farewell,
no last kiss
nor given
nor made, you're afraid.

A boy I once knew and I
were walking home from school
kicking rocks
when a beautiful woman drove by
in a then new Cadillac sedan
smoking a cigarette,
"I wish I was rich," he said
"Then I could land a broad like that."
"How?" I asked
"Huh?" he said, confused.
"How would you get her to like you?"
"Women are trophies," he said,
"You win 'em."
"Oh," "What happens when you win them?" I asked.
"***, I suppose."
"And then what?" I asked again.
"And then you have 'em, you win."
"Well, who's playing?" I asked.
"Everybody!" he asserted, "Everybody with a ****."
"Oh," I said, "But why is everybody playing?"
"I don't know!" he exclaimed, "You ask too many questions!"
I stared at the rocks on the ground as they passed.
We kept walking in silence until we split ways at a street sign,
and I didn't see him again.

I have nothing
in particular
to write
yet,
feel the need
to let my fingers
run over the keys,
pretend I am C.B.
and press a few
until something
starts to form
out of the subconscious
that lies behind these
drunken eyes and
irrepressible grin

I feel more sedated than alive,

Defying reason and questioning reality,

It’s like morbidly walking through

The endless fields of familiarity.

Slowly losing the ability to feel,

I can no longer distinct what is real,

Cold melancholy and apathy creep in my heart,

My existence becomes shrouded; like a rainbow in the dark.

Testing the bounds of sanity,

Human excess and passion flood the mind,

Releasing any bonds of any kind,

As I’m consumed by the snakes of vanity.

Laying among the ruins of my life,

As my paradise plummets down to Hell,

Because the confusion of chaos defeated me,

With kind words of reverence.

“Pride cometh before the Fall”,

As narcissism festers in self-loathing,

The feeling which makes your soul crawl,

Will cause intimacy to be exposed like clothing.

Fear is a thief for whom I hold no grudge,

And pain is a rehearsal for death.

I looked down at the abyss and took the lunge,

As my world was compressed into a single last breath.

There’s always a fifth man in the cab.

The fifth man
Pathetic pitiable
Ignored
Smoked out

And the one to go out
Before the ride begins

The fifth man never finds a place in the cab.

Find on his face
The smoke’s trail

Find in his look

Written bold

FAIL.

He’s the one without a place

He’s the one leaving no trace

He’s the one without a room in the cab.

Find on his face
(though you wouldn’t care to look)

the smoke’s trail

of time and again failing
to find a room

find in his look

written bold

DOOM.

For the fifth man there’s no space in the cab.

While others win
(or so they think)

ends his journey

before it begins.

The fifth man is forever out of the race.

Never makes one of four

When closes the cab’s door.

Find on his face

Written bold

LOST DEAL.

The fifth man ever out of the cab

Still

Isn’t a fifth man

By his own free will!

you draw your self hatred out like a kid draws out small pictures
and play double dutch with the hands on a clock, knowing how
unsafe it is out there, flirting with death and flicking me off when
i wrote out the reasons why you should stay, that this autumn fallout
is only a misconstruction of your mind's witching hour, that dystopia
won't linger and utopia will be home soon, it will blossom into your lungs
and turn the simplicity of your broken soul into something completely
quintessential and complex, like an origami rabbit, i fold my sharp edges
and twist myself to be malleable and secure for you, maybe i'm not too certain
of myself or you, but i'm not too certain on a lot of subjects, i'm worried
of being thrown into the arsonist world you started, covering up the sky with
black dense fog, the type of fog that would happen only in dangerous wildfires
i'm a controlled wildfire, but i let my fire spread just to help control your fire

- kra

When the evening glimmers day slowly turns dead
I peek at my watch sweet six in my head
Walk in windy sprint in cheerful childly gait
To reach home in time meet you sweet mate!

When the few hours seeming like weeks
Roll out prolonged till they reach six
I pick up my bag leave the tedium behind
To reach home in time my sweet mate in mind!

When the day unfolds bland time slowly ticks
The clock acts too lazy to reach the magic six
I hold on the belief the evening won’t be late
To ferry me in time to my waiting sweet mate!

When nothing seems to tick except my weary watch
As it trundles into six I say thank you very much
For though you ran so lazy reached six at any rate
To tell the time is ripe to rush home for sweet mate!

When each hour passes mundanely alike
Work drags slowly painting the day prosaic
Past its burned hours beyond the toil’s sweat
Chimes the magical six it’s time for sweet mate!

my writing seems to only come easily,
when i'm writing things i want to say to you,
but i can't.
right now i'm sitting here thinking about all the things from you
that get caught up in the thickets of my mind
like a nagging piece of a splinter that can't seem to get out of my palm.
the pain, although less than it would be if the whole splinter had stuck,
is still noticeable if i poke it, **** it, try to find it again,
pin point exactly where i have to press to make it hurt.
and once i've found that spot,
i keep pressing.
not because i like the way it feels,
but it's comforting, to know that i know what makes it hurt.
it's comforting, to know that it's still there, a constant reminder that the splinter was never fully removed.
it seems cliche,
to say that i miss you, but not who you are now.
i miss who you used to be.
the person who wrote me word by word, line by line, letter by letter,
their entire thought process..
where is she now?
gone.
i think about you,
and that letter you wrote.
"do deep people just conform the shallow way of thinking?"
you did.
did i?
i suppose that's something that we'll never know.
so it will keep nagging me,
bothering me,
like that small piece of splinter,
until i find away to get it out.
or until it gets infected and eventually kills me.
whichever comes first.