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The shark in dark waters
The cutting of hair
Tell the tale of transformation
And it's you, who guides me there

She says it's typical of you
to tear down and rebuild
And funny that it appeared to be
an accident- not willed

I don't believe that-
Oh no, an accident we're not!
For you are the lid, and
I am the ***

So as we toil and trouble
Bubble and burn
It is simply transparent
For (only) each other we yearn

Mixing and swirling,  feeling the heat
Seeing only our future around each turn we meet.

I'll hold on tight as this brew is fixed
Because no one or nothing is
as sweet on my lips.
So let me get this straight;
there was one point during whatever this is,
that I was kind of important to you.
I did matter, you did care,
that, at the very least, is the truth.

But what happened after that,
to make me so easy to replace,
to ignore, to put out of your mind?
Was I only a momentary thought for your pleasure,
a nice way to past the time?

Don't tell me you thought I moved on first,
just because I'm close to other men.
Because from what I heard
you aren't lonely either,
and the women you're with
are far from just "friends".

It would be nice to know for sure,
that you think of me, every now and again,
because lord knows I can't keep you off of my brain.
I just have to find out if you were worth all the sleepless nights,
or were my feelings for you just in vain.
I only know to cope in a couple of ways
- slam up some walls
Pretend it doesn't hurt
Move on
Innocence is a mockery on my face
My lips twist into grotesque resemblance
of long-gone smiles

It is difficult to remember
to relax
to be normal
'normal'

you come back in flurried recollections
blurs
and
heartaches


a pain starting from the middle
of my forehead
to the crick in my neck
right to my wrists
softly rotating trying to relax
i smile

this is normal
Imagination
A gift, such a sensual
Wonderful toy!
 Aug 2014 Sarah Michelle
Juneau
Swirling motions,
of sparking cosmic dust
Within this place is home,
to each and every one of us.

Massive bodies of-
aggressively burning gas.
We circle these objects,
within our swirling mass.

Celestial bodies,
grow and erode.
The stars themselves,
expand and implode.

We try and understand this place,
using geometry and math.
Yet, we’ll never know for sure,
what lies directly in our path.

Is there meaning to our lives,
as they appear to be?
Or are we grains of sand,
spinning into eternity?

Governments may deny this,
but, I know there’s higher intelligence.
Unfortunately their desire to remain hidden,
only shines light on their malevolence.

As we live our lives,
driving simple cars.
We are frequently monitored,
by Tall Whites and children of the stars.

I feel this is something that,
must be understood.
We must be extremely wary,
and not assume galactic brotherhood.

There’s an abundance of life,
out in the celestial sea.
And where there is life, predators,
will come to harvest thee.

But for all I know,
they could be humble and kind.
And all this fear is just a result,
of an over cynical mind.

And so we spin, drift and wait,
not knowing for certain our fate.
There are orbits in which,
our planets are compliant.

We all revolve around,
a great burning giant.
Here we turn in relative tranquility.
mostly unaware of our increasing vulnerability.
June 7, 2013
Twenty-second
 Aug 2014 Sarah Michelle
bambi
Can we speak of these certain vacant spaces
in my abandoned bedroom where the moon dwells
and shuttered creatures search their teeth
for a bloom of flavor and sun.

I'm surrounded by prosaic twilights--tenantless places--
where plaster perfumed by dormant fire
gapes with cavities and empty mouths
that seek him with their tongues.

Where darkness crawls on poppy seeds
on moths and reeds and shoes
to reach me in my consternation
now that his name has fled my lungs.


Today I sewed his note to my breast pocket
but it grew crescent roots like fingernails
and murmured that we were too young.
Homage to my dear Neruda and Number Six the sun to my moon.

May you be the last.
 Jul 2014 Sarah Michelle
r
Sun
 Jul 2014 Sarah Michelle
r
Sun
The yellow eye
of the sun,
like the ancient eyes
of an old man
who's seen too much whiskey,
used to brown my skin
now just dries me out
like an old boot
turned the wrong way
on the post out by the highway.

r ~ 7/8/14
\¥/\
   |    
  / \
 Jun 2014 Sarah Michelle
r
Shiny black spit-shined shoes
on the walk
in the Memorial Gardens
hurt my feet
to look at their stiffness
and his swollen ankles
in them.
His worn and creased pants
too short, belt buckle aligned
dress-right-dress
with the button fold of his shirt.
He wore
an old faded USMC campaign hat
pulled down
almost to his white eyebrows.
Almost comically.
I pitied him
in the way we sometimes do
the old who mumble,
never knowing
just who they are talking to.
I heard Inchon mentioned,
and Chosin a time or two,
and every time he said Puller knew,
yeah, Chesty knew
.
I quit taking my lunch
with a book in the Garden
when he stopped coming around
and after I saw his picture
in the obituaries
with a description of how he won
his Silver Star and two Purple Hearts;
wishing now I had listened closer.
More’s the pity
I never spoke to him.

r ~ 6/27/14
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