I have called you
the best
and the worst,
strange now,
that I call you
nothing at all.

You are everywhere, but
I guess that’s a lie.
It’s not you,
I don’t know you,
[not anymore].

No,
you have been reduced to
the echoes
of nostalgia,
echoes
that persuade me to stitch up the best
of the last two years
and, looking at my Frankenstein-like creation, say
I want to go back
when I know better.

Estrangement.

You do not contact me,
are no longer interested
in what I eat
or what I write
or what I feel.

Estrangement.

I have done my best
to scrub you from my life,
as if you were not a person,
but a stubborn stain.
I have deleted, unfollowed, thrown away
anything related to you,
not because I wanted to,
only so I could
finally
get it into my head
that this is well and truly

Over.

I am doing all the right things
I suppose.
Logicking my way
through heartbreak
once more.

None of my exes can ever be friends,
the same scenes are played out
until the bitter end, and you
are no exception.

it moves in lines, upon flat surfaces
  we tried to catch it last week, but, no dice
‘that’s your department, isn’t it? take responsibility.’
  true.
but, we were waiting for confirmation.
                  ‘excuses aren’t relevant here,
                        moving forward is a precondition for itself,
                                 so nothing will change until it’s properly addressed.’

the counter’s still pointing at「 green 」 though.

  things should be safe for now


three months pass.


         it multiplies in aggregates
               motion seeps within still surfaces,

‘where were you last summer?’           like a lava lamp
oh, you know, out and about,               it deforms
busy. buzzy. buzz.                                  and,
‘oh. yeah. we can’t afford                      separates from itself

deficit here, can we?                              into self contained units
i hope everything’s okay.’                     and
   it’s fine.                                                 floats away.
                                    …
                     ­       ‘that’s good’
                                    …
‘we were thinking of leaving this place soon, anyway.’

…

fair enough.
  no one’s
                  really expecting anything to be found, anyway.

the counter is pointing at 「 red 」 now, though


three months pass.


it breeds through rumpled cloth, and breaths out through solid objects.
colours float over matted patches, a ringing sound pierces out of iron bars.

        -   the counter no longer shows anything

people pass themselves at crossroads,  half turning,
  to  speak,    but carry on walking their separate ways
  (it’s okay, none of us had anything to say, really)

        -   we expect a full report, you understand?

the spaces between take root. shadows flicker though the limelight
        filter filter, pass over. embroid and disperse

        -   yes,   of course. there’s no one left to read it, though.

the counter is pointing to 「 itself 」

huh.

must be broken

face plasters the wall a long boring walk i’ve seen three figures turned into the pavement perforated in memory dismal dysfunctional riding the hour hand crumbles into rust waving without a head layer cake wonder if she ever finished that english degree filling wonder if she went back to darwin filling catching a bus filling sitting with her legs crossed out filling eyes glossed into the crossing filling lines running into her pigments filling think i saw four strangers living together inside the head of my dead father didn’t attend his own funeral didn’t catch his own mouth didn’t measure the etch so his ashes formed back into themselves lost in the sleeves of a book tying a knot through his guts wading through waves of deprecated language without an end in sight

City came underwater
Circling itself
Fumbling through wet cloth
Rain soaked, rain soaked

Flooded all the mean streets
Dead ends
Singing like the cold stream
Running through our summer sweat

That moment ten years ago
Swore we’d die, but not like this
Broken like the old oak
Salt on your lips

Language
is one of my favorite things
for which I displayed
an early facility
I toyed with foreign languages
but went no further
it wasn’t where I wanted
to spend my time

I wanted to save the whales
improve education
fight poverty
protect our environment
a whole host of causes
I visited in a repeating cycle
whirling faster and faster until

I created my own vortex
and then found myself
at the far end of a wormhole
with no idea how I got there
much less how to return
and found myself observing
every time I behaved badly
in excruciating detail

A tactless comment
a thoughtless act
each small transgression
building stone by stone
until I created a fortress
walling myself within
this invisible shield

When we touch
is it you or me
who feels remotely?

All dissolves into Oneness.

17 July 2005

we may loose
each other
as suddenly as
we met
years ago
under a bluer sky

many steps
have already
been taken

rituals of complaint
that point
to deeper troubles

no talk
about certain things

a joking camouflage
for unspoken
sadness

gestures of weariness
of irritation
and withdrawal

embarrassed silence
across the double bed

seven billion people
in their separate worlds

the next step
may be

so easy

* *

I taught you
how to say my name correctly
Uhn-juh-nuh
and you taught me
how to say the name of your hometown
Can-an-day-gua.
A fair exchange,
perhaps.

Canandaigua.
Town that manufactured
Arbor Mist,
the cheap artificial wine I bought
[being the only one of drinking age]
that we drank
all summer,

well,

until July
when everything fell apart.

In August
When things settled down
when you decided that
you didn’t love me anymore,
we issued that age old
empty promise exes make:
“We’ll still be friends.”
Exchanged a few Facebook messages
and that was that.

I was never in love with you,
but
you still made it into my zine,
and I still think of you
from time to time,
visit your Facebook page
as if...

well, who knows?
It’s always the same with
everyone I used to know,
but Over is Over,
no social media changes that.

When I see that name:
Canandaigua,
I think of you,
but it’s just another name
and you’re just another Over.

It’s too bad, I suppose.
Was I supposed to say more?
Yes, of course I was,
what a question to ask
when I know that in the end
I’m always an overwhelming

Under-reaction.

[There’s a reason I never got bullied in school.]

I wonder why
I keep the letters,
the old poetry
when none of it makes me feel
anything at all
but
I guess all documentation is
in memoriam.

-
It’s too bad,
we couldn’t be
Civil.

[But of course,
Civil is never what you wanted,
I should have known better, my fellow borderline.
It’s all or none.
It’s always been that way.]

I think about you from time to time
not with anger,
just with,
well, I don’t know.

I don’t suppose
we’ll ever talk again.

The difference between you and I
is that if you cut me off,
I get the picture.
You say you’re done,
well,
say no more,
I’m gone.
There’s no need
to embarrass myself
again.

The difference between
you and I
is that I don’t cross
Boundaries.

-
Tonight
I find myself
rereading your poetry.
I do it from time to time -
strange to think of it
as illicit, Bad, Facebook stalking,
when we used to know each other.
[Seemingly.]

This one,
one of your many published poems,
is supposed to be about
Me.
That’s what you told her, anyway.
She didn’t get it,
and neither did I.
Even now,
there are not enough references to hold on to,
and the meaning is still lost on me.

[I was lost to you, a long time ago,
but that’s how it goes I guess.]

-
Found your soundclound page
[the only place I’ll hear your voice again]
and it’s strange
to see a picture of you
Smiling.

Your last words still buzz around in my head:

…I am so done trying to be your friend
…selfish,
…I deserve better

I don’t think
of you as smiling.

-
It’s too bad,
I suppose,
that I keep thinking
we could have been something,
that I keep thinking
it could have worked,
that I keep thinking
it could still work,
simply because
we had things in common.

Of course those things were never enough,
but what can I say?
I’m an idealist to the end.

-
It’s too bad, but
I am never going to forgive you.