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One train leaves Santa Fe going east at seven eleven
destination's unknown and the speed is irrelevant
Another leaves Boston at eight twenty five
We know when it left. When will it arrive?

If eighteen percent aboard are practicing Christians
and twenty eight percent are worshiping Krishna
what percent will be spared when the trains have collided?
Which subset will have a better chance of survival?

If there are five homosexuals with their life partners
and thirty two fundies with hate signs and markers
What are the odds that of the forty-two mentioned,
that ten gay folks survive.  Was it divine intervention?

If you factor and account for wind speed and sun
If you double check your figures (and carry The One)
Are those who climb from the wreckage unharmed
more righteous than the ones who lie dormant and calm?

How long will you stare silently at the equation
searching for a solution that leads to salvation?
When all is said and done at the end of the day
There are no survivors, so says F=ma
I think I may have misplaced the point in Albuquerque
You hand just hangs
there like a question.
I want to reach for it.
To fold it into my smaller one.
To fold it into the corner
of my existence that I have left open,
swept clean,
for some time now.
Waiting for the right one to crawl into it and
stay for a while.
I can feel the crackle of your skin from here. Without
even touching it.
That the sound of air leaving your lungs
makes my body clench low and wet and tight
seems almost unfair.
But to understand
that you aren't moved
by me
at all,
that too,
seems unfair.
That when my hand hangs
in the air
like a question,
you don't even understand that
your hand is the

The American Way
The American Way
The American Way
The American Way

 Mar 2012 QuiverCoeur
I haven't thought about you properly in ages.
There's no need, I don't want you back.
I'd go as far as to say that you mean nothing to me anymore,
on a day to day basis.

But occasionally something small and insignificant
flicks the switch on the minature cinema screen in my mind
and your sepia face and our blurry memories flit across it briefly.

I stumbled across a bunch of old photos.
Old photos are a killer, aren't they?
They're just still-lifes of the pretty times so in photos, at least,
my whole past is bathed in silvery sunlight
and appears to be dipped in melted happiness.

There were just so many of me and you,
sometimes with my family, sometimes with yours.
(I wonder how they are? I saw your mum the other day,
but I didn't say hello, because she never did like me anyway
and to be honest, I didn't like her either.)

The thing I find strange, and sad, is
that it's not the frozen moments
where we're wrapped around each other
that make my stomach perform a sad little squeeze
and mist form along the surfaces of my eyes.

It's the one where we're stood apart, existing alone
as humans have to
but so obviously doused in the knowledge that,
at any moment, we can come together.

I miss that.
 Mar 2012 QuiverCoeur
Hold me.
Just me.

And make it a conscious decision.
Music talks to me
and it bugs me
because the message
is not so great,
but sound
doesn't say anything
and I listen
a lot
to the noise
of the world
that, to me,
sounds like music,
but the radio
plays music
that talks
and the message
is not all that great,

(but I love it anyway).
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