1285

I know Suspense—it steps so terse
And turns so weak away—
Besides—Suspense is neighborly
When I am riding by—

Is always at the Window
Though lately I descry
And mention to my Horses
The need is not of me—

I feel so ******* weird like
buy a pack of cigarettes weird like
I ate too much pizza and cake weird like
when was the last time I thought about my ex weird like
how soon is too soon to be in love weird like
got a job at a fast food chain restaurant that I can't even eat at weird like
I have to figure out how to pay the rent and electric bill before next week weird like
I'm gonna chain smoke because my new fast food job says I can't and I have to get it out of my system weird.

[NEW]
Scientists know more about the
                 moon
           than the ocean.

[WAXING CRESCENT]
Light can only dive 200 meters
            down into the ocean.  Below it,
the “Midnight Zone” glows in the dark.  
(By standing in your shadow,
I am hoping to become
                                         bioluminescent.)

[FIRST QUARTER]
Life has a tendency to thrive in hostile environments.  
                                                 ­                        For this reason, Jupiter’s moon,
                                                           ­              Europa, may be able to support
                                                                ­         life within the global ocean of
                                                              ­           liquid water that is hidden
                                                          ­               beneath the ice at its surface.
(This is why I am able to bloom in the dark.)

[WAXING GIBBOUS]
The ocean bows to no one but the moon.  Turn
off the lights.  Turn up the stars.  Low tide wants to
fold back inside itself and lap against the
                             shores of the Sea of Tranquility.  
High tide just wants to be noticed.

[FULL]
But a heated black body sunspot,
                (isolated from the rest
                of the photosphere),
still shines brighter than the moon.  Wolves should
be howling at the sun instead.

I'm likely to breath in
diesel fumes on Sunday
than ever the soft efforts
of spoken word saints.
Burnt out eyes from blue lights
and empty coffee cups full
of muddy rings.

Melatonin bleeds out blending
a wasteland of words.
Off season is
oft spent without thought,
gone in subtle joy.
Heavy knee across inhale
in a flesh crush,
so much, so maybe
it is the best moment I've ever had,
or heeded, until tomorrow
is sought for with a fresh smile.
I do have morals regardless of god.
I peel off layers of time,
hot and reeling in exertion.
I'm putting together something and
it just might be me.
As it was the time before,
but each time- a little better,
at least in this moment.
You say live in the now,
as if I should live in fear
of a future gone sour.

I don't fear a loss of power,
of limbs sawn off,
psyche sent scrambling, insane.
We are all in the red rend,
whole and writhing
ripped from lapsing grip.
I rasp that, for now:
it is all mine.

1.     I have to stop when I catch myself mentally titling poems about how you and I do not belong together.
2.     Doomed like your mother, doomed like your father—don’t think it, don’t think it—loneliness is my birthright, loneliness is my bride.
3.     This is a mania, this is a phobia. Tag your neuroses and track them, keep track of them.
4.     Remember  _, think what happened to _.
5.     You speak of your friend like she’s dead.
6.     She is dead, though, only wakes up now and then to bury herself.
7.     What do you mean?
8.     I mean she reaches out with one arm from her shallow grave, and she buries herself. Great fistfuls of dirt.
9.     But?
10.   But she was not a huntress.
11.   And so?
12.   And so it got the best of her.
13.   Well, you tell me what I ought to see
                when I self-perceive
                       Would you lie to me?
14.   No, you’re a truth-teller, heart-sweller.
15.   The Age of Huts, man, I never had it in me. I’m all ravens and bell-jars.

Stop, please stop that thud, that thud,
I hear your thirst like sand for blood--
O I will bring you water, water,
only beat your breast no longer!
Because I see your prayer becoming
consumptive by its own drumming,
a labyrinth that bears no unthreading.
God, I saw a black bruise spreading
deep within that dreadful cadence--
and his prayer was patience, patience.
“Tell me, please, what I can do
to break you from that death tattoo,”
but all he did was beat and nod
I lost him to an Awful God.

when your arms are around my waist
when I make coffee in the kitchen
it traces a delicate line around the present.

you never discuss the future with me.
here and now,
not knowing makes me buoyant:
it’s not a thing I’d plan without you

you seem to know the time goes somewhere
but I’m not sure if you’ve seen
the number of future Saturdays
gathering behind my teeth--
our dreams still sleep in separate beds

every task unasks a question
(will your arms circle my waist then and then?
coffee? here, or across oceans? when?)

tomorrows fall upon tomorrows in my soul
suspense, I am always suspended:
a bomb in a spider’s web--
time is building up in me,
will I, I wonder
one day rupture?