I speak to the world.
it talks back, but not in the same way--
it tells me to watch
all the little movements--
my eyes drink in slowly
the ceiling fan
it's shadow reconstruction
spinning on the wall
I listen as this life speaks.
creaking floor underfoot
it's words are lost on my heels
they do not understand.
bedroom window to the street
I can barely see through
the curtains are drawn closed.

this world shows me sense--
it swallows me whole.

night turns in the sky
like a restless sleeper
so I am awake
cool air greets me
from the idling fan
and the floor whines.
I cannot see the back yard.
cannot hear, feel the world
through the distractions--
these cardboard walls
the paper sky
my mannequin skin--
a projection of the time blinks,
red numbers resting on a black shelf,
in spite of my confines.
11:31 PM
I can not move it back.
11:32 PM

I found her sitting,
sunk into a broken recliner--
the one in the back room
with the tired arms; old arms worn down,
frayed like miniature tassels on the ends--
her legs were pulled under her
like they always are
when her thoughts are heavy
and she can't stand the cold

her suitcase lied open
not far from the doorway
where I'd come in
clothes leaked from the inside--
puddled on the floor around it--
and I had to watch my step
as I walked farther in to see her

she didn't say anything
when I came in
her eyes were unfocused,
staring at the opposite wall
where she'd given up earlier
trying to hang a picture up
the nail was already driven
shallowly into the tan
it was the sole decoration of the room--
not much to look at--
but she stared at it like it was the painting
lying face-up on the ground next to her
like it was enough of a respite
from the blank wall
maybe she saw something I didn't
in what wasn't there
some simplistic beauty, maybe
but I couldn't see it
all I saw were tired hands

she was the one who picked it--
that soft tan staining the walls--
she said it looked like morning coffee
when the lights were off
and it made her feel like she was home
back where the walls were paper-thin
and the backyard trees grew tall

she didn't ever drink coffee
but she liked the idea of it
liked waking up to the smell
and watching it pour
but she never liked the taste
I was close to her
close enough to smell the drink in the air
she held a mug in one hand
let it rest on her leg as she stared
and it wasn't missing a drop

I drew nearer and looked
at what leaned against the chair--
the picture was of a forest
and a village buried between trunks--
she told me about the place once
but she didn't remember painting it
she was sure she'd been there
sometime in a dream
and she'd met all of the people
read them like poetry
promised to keep them close
and forgot them all promptly
when she woke up

she led her gaze from the nail,
her sleepy eyes focusing
when I reached her
her hands were like ice under mine
and she spoke softly to me,
slowly through languid pauses
about packing up to visit the forest again--
about how she wished it would snow
and how wonderful the trees would look
if they were painted white
instead of green

I wish I could play the piano
or something else lovely like that
so I could come home every night
and play the keys that make you cry
before we sat down to eat--
I'd set the table
and you'd wipe your eyes

we'd eat quietly,
conversing through scraping forks,
porcelain against metal
and sidelong smiles between bites--
words are overrated anyway
and what's there to say?--
I'd watch the strays you missed,
liquid tragedy crawling down your cheeks
drawing mascara highways
and I'd imagine driving on one of them,
hydroplaning dangerously close to your skin
as a piano plays somewhere up high--
I suppose I'd need a boat instead

I wish I could paint landscapes
or something else beautiful like that
so I could travel to the mountains
on rainy weekends
and bring them back for you
I'd hang one on our wall
you'd watch the birds' still circling
high above the snowy peak
right before you fall asleep on the couch

I'd spend my weekdays
pulling stars from the sky
with old paintbrushes and older canvas
while I wait for the moon to fall into the lake
so I can swim in and take it home
I'd show up on our front porch steps
all sodden smiles and dripping clothes
holding it under my arm
and you'd let me track water in
all the way to the bedroom
so I could hang it above the headboard
where it'd stay for simple nostalgia
"remember when we caught the moon?"

sometimes
i forget who i am
not my name or location
just what sets me apart
due to desire
to be more like someone else

i just have to remember
i am an escapist
i am a vagrant
i am a writer
i am a pyromaniac
i am an inhabitant of purgatory
i am half living
i am an addict
i am a statistic
i am a radio wave surfer
i am a bridge burner
i am a coffee stain
i am two young lungs

i am the girl across the hallway
in an old jean jacket
with paint on her cheek
trying not to cry

and i hope someone remembers
because i'm trying to forget
that i exist
to make it unreal

I don't know if this is poetry
This is a wounded cry
This life of mine
Lately, is a bad dream
I tread lightly in the pools of insanity
I can't forget that ******* fortune cookie

It was our first date, and lovely at that
I haven't taken a lady out
Since Before there was hair on my chest

It's nice to be wanted
Away from lights
And one nights
On stages and bar corners
Subways and cafes
Anywhere my heart sings
Just makes the clown
Ever so similar to me

But that ******* fortune cookie
Curse if I remember what it said
Mine advised beginnings are the start of much labor
And hers urging to explore her options

I laughed and shrugged
And secretely cursed not choosing
Indian

Meanwhile, in neon lights
I drown another night
She says I'm way to serious about
An open mic
Somehow I always forget to go home
All my friends give me stupid advice
Hallmark lines, and hollow tripe
I love them the same
I think they have no understanding
I'm happier bordering reality
I tread lightly in the pools of insanity
After bad dreams
Its a defense mechanism
Don't judge me
Nightmare
She's sitting there
Looking so fine
Those lips I remember I kissed
Now pout and direct glare
From once loving, hazel eyes
And I ask for a stiff ***
And sit next to her

In retrospect I was my dumbest true self
I said
Why have you been ignoring my messages
Her offended look was enough to send
My heart to my stomach
The words that follow brief
I ask if we can speak alone
I have to know why
You want nothing to do with me
I held you so close
You promised me dear
Now
Not even a friend
The sweetest ones always go
I feel like garbage
I feel like an old music box
That should have never been released
From the attic

I feel like a typewriter dormant
And hollow, choking dust of 1955

Let me play then throw me away
Not even a friend to me
I got old
My one song
Now looked at in vain

I held you so dear
You promised me so sweetly
You kissed me with fire
You promised me
Not even a friend now
Not even a friend to me

I thought for a month the moon would never return,
But as young as I am, I still have much to learn
White light piercing black veiled skies,
What a sight, for a widower in paradise!
Vision, gentle now with this glory bright,
Death may shake the earth but I'm steady in flight.

I will arise and go now, and go to Mount Djouce,
And I will climb and surely fall,
Until I no longer stand so tall.

Alone or with you,
I shall lay there;
On grass as soft as my bed,
To relax and stop the thoughts in my head.

I hope to have some peace there,
Away from everything and everywhere,
As I gaze towards the distant horizon,
The grounds a murky green and the sky is a perfect blue.

Perhaps I will think of you,
As I enjoy this beautiful view,
A blur of green and blue so true.

I will arise and go now,
And I shall exit without a bow.
I feel the cutting breeze go through me,
I hear the birds as they fly freely;
While I sit here in this room,
And silently await chaos to resume.