The past just sits there
in the corner of forgetting
and hums an old song.
He swings his foot
and taps his fingers.
He tries to pretend
that he is not fading away.
I have the pleasure
of ignoring him
in a rather sensible fashion,
having been down that road before.

                   Ida Werrett

it was three years ago
when you kissed me on the cheek on the sidewalk
during the light snowfall
that would later become the biggest storm of the year.
but we didn't know that.
all we knew
is that you soon found your hand
gripping mine
and we both believed
that it was not the mittens
that were keeping our palms warm.

I scrape my forearms as if the hand you have clasped around my wrist is a lion’s jaw.

I don’t do well under social pressures
And I would love nothing more than to lend you my underwear and tell you about my dreams
But my modesty is a jealous ***** and will have none of that

So instead, I put my feet on your lap and touch behind my ears
Positioning them like satellites, prepared to receive any data you let into the atmosphere

I tell you about the boy I loved in high school, you tell me about the book you’re reading

I dress you up to be John Keats
With words of romance swimming through your veins
From your eyes to your hands
The prose you conjure make my eyelashes sweep against my upper cheek

With ***** in your blood and the night still young,
You have the ability to write me a novel crafted out of the moments that have crept through your fingers

I grasp at your memories as if they were butterflies,
Careful not to touch the wings, so that their beauty might be seen by someone else

I sit and watch as your face becomes a sitcom
With all the laughs and pains that a script can hold
I look for places where I might make notes in the margins, trying to make you more cohesive

I glue a penny to my forehead
Face up
In hopes that someone will take it from its place
Looking for the bit of luck it holds and instead grab my hand.

My stomach clenches in knots
Craving an understanding of the words you mumble into your coffee

My toes massage the soles of my shoes
Looking for a foot hold in the song I’m humming

But instead I breathe on my tea and dwell on the kiss we shared in the basement

it is end of day
the moon glows, the birds head home
the boats sway in their own random dance
and you see
life slows to its lame walk

travelers stop at Shinagawa
and they have needs;
our duties done
you pack your samisen
and you will go
and  I shall change into clothes
best for some rest and sleep
and we shall meet again
another day
as our days flow
like dispassionate rivers

Say you want a cat. A dog's too easy,
would wag when wag is inappropriate,
and slobber on the guests. You'll take the cat,
so different and strange, it drives you crazy,

its shiftlessness, its ins-and-outs, its chi.
You call. It does not come. Is this a pet,
this Dharma ***? You say you can't accept
its vacant gaze, its scorn, who yearned to be

at home with feral grace, with all you're not.
But you're a Body safely locked from Mind,
that Problem no Mind solves. This point's defined
for you by ****, who's not the pet you thought

but Otherness, one owned by God, or none.
Cat sleeps for hours, wants out. A job well done.

The grey October day
shows me a tree
outside my window
which holds golden-brown leaves
and towering spires
of white leaves
(or so it seems)
that I have never seen
before
and the left hand
is steady and still
with first and middle fingers
on one side
of my notebook
and the left thumb on top
as the right hand fingers
move along quickly
across this lined page.

This morning, at night,
the mind was ranting
about how I was lousy
at art and such a loser,
so I said that I
am not interested
in success,
I only want
to do.
The mind then shut up
and I got busy.
Keep in mind
that the mind is tricky
and hard to understand,
since it is Buddha.

Prelude,
Skin was scorching,  
Prickling our naked ankles.
Whispers of passion—amounting to the indefinite.  
Excitement overriding fear.
Your smirk—it was scorning my wit, but all the while I was spinning—
Trying to outdo you.
Challenging the norm of lovers before me, despite those many warnings.
And yet, here I am, brushing against your infamous lips,
Having more intentions than I care to share with you,
Because I will be the exception.
I, a determined revolutionist bent on transforming your philosophy.
The inevitable vulnerability, the alleged helplessness found by your touch—
You were all talk, and nothing I couldn’t handle.
___

Interlude,
Something encroaches now.
A force unplanned.
It violates me. It breaches the wall of my veins.
Slithering, swimming —
A parasitic force of which I was convinced I was immune.
Biology’s symbiotic model; forever tainted by our act.
For many a love was given in primal flesh, yet goes unrequited in spirit.
I believed I could break this cycle.
I, the revolutionist
Believed I could topple your deeply set pride.
I believed I could crack your shell and pull out the viscera,
Bleeding, pulsating in between my fingers, and let the mass slide from my hands
To fall upon your chest, floundering in plain view.
I imagined that your eyebrow would raise, your lips would part to form a
Contorted grin, you would sigh, and then admit,
“Nicely Done.”

I believed you would be impressed.
I believed you would be impressed…

____

Epilogue,
Wit is waning.
Skin is cold, rotting… and wasting.  
My beautiful body is rotting.
And I cannot admit that you were right,
Lest I would rot more quickly.
Still unyielding to your claims,
Only so you not think of me as fragile,
Not because I think I may win.
Clinging to the hope that you may someday learn to love
This broken, yearning body.
This fallen revolutionist—
All along a convenient satiation of flesh.