Tough circles
.
are
a piece of cake

Subject

Shortly after our
first date I joked
Don’t make me write a poem about you.

It’s been a year and I laugh
because my poems
have become your home.

It’s been a year and
you’re kissing
someone else and
I’m just kissing people
who aren’t you.

Waking up next to you
for the last time
we knew it was and
we had to tell each other
not to cry so we could
kiss for the last time

When we broke
you said to me
I don’t want to be the subject of one of your poems.

But I warned you.

I stopped writing when....

When I was no longer broken -
unlike before with a heart suffocated
suffocated with feelings left unspoken,
with little things gone complicated.

I stopped writing when...

When I was no longer burdened
with thoughts circling in my head,
and pain excruciating like no end -
snapped my spine through the things you've said.

I stopped writing when...

When I was no longer in love,
When I was no longer suffering the feeling of longing,
When I was no longer...

i think stopped loving you because I can't write about you anymore.*

You don't deserve to be the subject of my writing anymore.

Father, you are the blueprint of my soul,
And though I sense our parting drawing near,
The crucible of death will make us whole.

The day or hour is not ours to control
Yet even strangers read your passing here.
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.

In paradise's fields I see a knoll
Where, shucked of flesh, we sport without a care,
The crucible of death will make us whole.

As age and weight make diamond from the coal,
So I am fashioned from your smile and tear,
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.

I will not dread the shedding of my role,
A promise waits beyond the footlights' glare,
The crucible of death will make us whole.

So, father, do not fear to pay the toll,
I am the sun, your shadow I revere.
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.
The crucible of death will make us whole.

There he is,
between the Siberian Tiger and the Maui's Dolphin,
**** Mobilis Nullius.
She does not own a cellphone.
Text for her is the letters and words
that make up a book.
If he wants to take a picture,
he'll use a camera, thanks.
She doesn't want to download, upload,
freeload, overload,
girl, you've got to carry that load
of debt to the telco company.
He watches movies in the cinema
and he doesn't want to be hooked up
to the internet
or caught in the ever-widening net of commerce.
She's happy with the ancient ways,
songlines on the landline
lines on the land
where a woman can walk away
and hear only the ringing
of bird song,
lines on the land
a man can follow to the heart
of somewhere lost
and know only peace.

My Subject Subjected,
You've once been a chapter fare
And a page away in my story.

Do I listen?
Oh, it is rude to listen.
To something that is not mine.

One's voice is as sleek as platinum
The other is my father's
Refreshing as lemons and limes.

Catching wisps of it
Their words are quite curious
About coffee shops and dinosaurs.

Sometimes it's not really
Worth listening to
The subject is too unknown and too far.

I imagine where they might be sitting
Surely not outside our black gate.
It is too hot for anyone to be outdoors…

So they must be on the grey garage
Sitting on the bamboo chairs
Or standing on the floor

Anyway, my thoughts
Drown out their words
My eyes flicker around the computer screen

My sister talks too loud
I reach for the white earphones atop my desk
Play Owl City's 'Metropolis', which I must say sounds serene.