Four years of hopes flung into the sky like clay discs
of a ***** shoot and foolishly, I think
that they are real pigeons with wings colored
in iridescent shades and cooing softly to me
“I am coming home.”
I do silly things, like clean my house, buy new
******* and his favorite foods. I push all other
men away and wait, so I won’t risk rejection or
inflict wounds by betraying this man who
does not even belong to me.
As the date approaches, the estimated time
of arrival becomes more and more obscure
like the day he left for California and never
came back. And the innumerable
broken promises every day thereafter.
“I won’t be here a year” he says. But year two
hides him safely in west coast crevasses. “No I
won’t come to see you” declares year three
“they confiscated my electronics,
I am not supposed to talk to you.
I beat myself in the head with a golf club, don’t
you see how much I love you? I am coming back
for you in year four; why didn’t you wait for me?
In rushing water I stripped naked
37.83 N, 122.54 W and carved a poem
about us into a rock but I needed to prove that
I am normal, so I loved and ****** the autumn
haired girl. Why won’t you talk to me? How
could you hurt me this way? My song set
tells the story of you
but I cannot let you hear it because you have
abandoned me.” One by one, the hopes are
shot down, “pull!” cries his fears and erratic
behavior, because I broke his silent contracts
by moving on with my life.
How many times will I scold myself saying
that I never should have answered the phone?
If your muse is tragedy, you must continually
feed it. Now is it he or I with the spoon in hand?
Mounded spoonfuls of clay pigeons.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Four years of hopes flung into the sky like clay discs
of a ***** shoot and foolishly, I think
that they are real pigeons with wings colored
in iridescent shades and cooing softly to me
“I am coming home.”
I do silly things, like clean my house, buy new
******* and his favorite foods. I push all other
men away and wait, so I won’t risk rejection or
inflict wounds by betraying this man who
does not even belong to me.
As the date approaches, the estimated time
of arrival becomes more and more obscure
like the day he left for California and never
came back. And the innumerable
broken promises every day thereafter.
“I won’t be here a year” he says. But year two
hides him safely in west coast crevasses. “No I
won’t come to see you” declares year three
“they confiscated my electronics,
I am not supposed to talk to you.
I beat myself in the head with a golf club, don’t
you see how much I love you? I am coming back
for you in year four; why didn’t you wait for me?
In rushing water I stripped naked
37.83 N, 122.54 W and carved a poem
about us into a rock but I needed to prove that
I am normal, so I loved and ****** the autumn
haired girl. Why won’t you talk to me? How
could you hurt me this way? My song set
tells the story of you
but I cannot let you hear it because you have
abandoned me.” One by one, the hopes are
shot down, “pull!” cries his fears and erratic
behavior, because I broke his silent contracts
by moving on with my life.
How many times will I scold myself saying
that I never should have answered the phone?
If your muse is tragedy, you must continually
feed it. Now is it he or I with the spoon in hand?
Mounded spoonfuls of clay pigeons.
