I found that checklist you made for me.
maybe in an act of caring, or reflection.
Regardless, in it's agenda, starkly outlined,
was to feel better, lighter heart, abounding laughter.
I wanted to.
It's not so easy, I would like to say.
Maybe it's a crutch. Maybe it's true
that it's not always best to make written vows.
Maybe I loved you in an act of reinvention.
Maybe it's difficult not to feel that you loved me like
impressions of a still life.
Maybe that I found that thing behind the liquor shelf
is a testament to that history.
But surely it's better now that you spend the holidays
with your parents.
Maybe I just like to grapple with the drawls,
nicotine fits, and scathing aspiration.
I don't hide behind lofty language anymore.
Besides, sometimes I don't even know what I meant
in those conundrums and love poems.
Maybe sometimes they meant nothing.
I hope we were more than that, that is,
I hope we were not victims of a more general tendency.
both yours, and mine.
Our bond is nameless,
but maybe similar
to tenuous, craven fingers
which play bruised cafe pianos
part and tuck back hair
caress champagne flutes
or clench into fists.
I've displayed for you my violence,
with that sweet and curious song.
Don't leave me tied to that olive branch
your dress is hanging from.
I'm certain now, Maria,
in the absence of your touch.
I am only who I am,
not who I was.
Take me to the concert hall,
unsheathe your violin.
Play for me that farewell kiss
that I'm still living in.
I'm terrified, maria,
of your gleaming silver gun.
But we've known for quite a while
what must be done.
Song/Work in Progress
it is easiest to smile
into the mirror
It is gratifying
when the obviousness
of great pretending
Even from behind the porch step,
and through the volition of the rain,
I am certain
the lightning revealed
a curious kiss
in the far
Just something that popped into my head.
and sometimes casual
like a sundress from one shoulder,
or palms with a cheek perched in
staring from the brasserie awning
after the drinks came.
is often paralyzing
like turning an eye
to the mystery of the sea
with it's lurid invitations,
and where many great things
have been carried to
and vanished within.
Or more tragically
they have found something else
on the other side of.
is usually terrible,
because you are so ravishing in yellow,
which is difficult for most people
to be. And more importantly,
Because I know the sea
was not broken
by the many that crossed before,
and the very few who walked away
And right now
it is because I look
and you look to the sea.
Work in progress
I drew from your lips
like a gun from the hip.
and we bled such mysterious blood.
Your body arched into a conduit
of divine magnetism.
And when I saw you,
my darling one,
maybe it was too holy for these eyes
and these hands, and this
I was real gone then.
A phantom, something vague,
by the wonder of many moments
deftly strung together by
the thin silk of enthrallment.
Or, maybe worse, concealed
by the magic show of happiness.
You were not the first angel I’d seen.
And this is not the final glass I’ll
raise in remembrance.