"compartments" poems
We have holes in our hearts
That are either
Scars from the past
Or empty compartments
To be filled in the future
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of a vulture. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the ***** whale, and the ***** whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I never want to be away from you again, except at work, in the restroom or when one of us is at a movie the other does not want to see.
I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where we once were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from slim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and no matter how I am discovered after what happens to me as I am discovering this.
I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world.
I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence, and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong.
I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday.
Strange as it may seem, I still hope for the best, even though the best, like an interesting piece of mail, so rarely arrives, and even when it does it can be lost so easily.
Life will never end when you are in it.”
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
Beware the bottled thoughts of angry young men
Secret compartments hide all their skeletons
Little girl wants to make her home with him
In the middle of the shore, she wonders
"Don't know what you asked for."
"Don't know what you asked for."
All young lovers know why
Nightmares blind their mind's eye
Your rube is young and handsome
So new to your bedroom floor
You know **** well where you'll go
I've loved so many times and I've drowned them all
From their coral graves, they rise up when darkness falls
With their bones they'll scratch the window, I hear them call
"Don't know what you asked for."
"Don't know what you asked for."
Stay with me under these waves, tonight
Be free for once in your life tonight
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Did you know that if you leave your car in your driveway,
With the keys in the ignition,
And someone sits down in the front seat like they own it, and drives away,
You are the one who is liable for theft?
They can drive that sucker to the coast.
They can burn the upholstery with their cigarettes. They can bring their friends into the back seat, and fill the compartments with their refuse, and **** and they can leave it ruined in front of your house, or crushed into the median on the highway, or left in disconnected pieces under an overpass.
It will be called, “unauthorized use of a vehicle.”
It will be called a “misdemeanor.”
But you left the car running.
Weren't you kind of asking for it to happen?
They said,
This,
(Gesturing to the skirt which fell to two inches
above my kneecap),
Is like that.
If I walk outside of my house in jeans and a t-shirt, or a long dress with thin straps,
Or with my chin tilted out,
Or with long eyelashes,
Or with full lips,
Or with my hips swaying when I walk,
It's like I left the car running.
It's like I invited them to force their bodies into the front seat.
In their minds, or with their hands, or with their lips to anyone who would listen to them.
Little girls in leotards become like unlocked car doors;
Where men can burn their cigarettes into their skin,
Or stick their fingers in
In plain view of their parents,
And told to let it happen,
Quietly.
It isn't theft,
It's “a medical examination.”
What did they expect?
It isn't a theft.
She was just as guilty of negligence.
It isn't really a felony.
It's not THAT BAD. (Stop being so dramatic.)
It's the unauthorized use of your body, for a time, or one night,
or every time you close your eyes for the rest of your life,
Sure-
But you left the car running.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
I've known heights, aimed like a bullet
to the top of the head.
Forbidden songs, jagging
placid landscapes.
Waterblood waterbone --
my body cries out to me.
How long the abuse, how long!
In the barreled pit of my sober life
up from common sense--snapping into it,
my soul came alive.
Alive I say!
By grace I breached.
Free in the wind!
Kingdoms of water, alive kingdoms --
hear now the words of my tears.
Mea Culpa!
I slam on the brakes, tear off the roofs
of steel compartments.
I see sky and feel in daylight every hidden star.
I declare -- the emperor of death
has no clothing.
I scatter forgiveness
across all the fattened streets.
Oceans of me are singing.
A spinning angels' symphony.
Over the graves of ancestors, I vow:
Water, I shall love you.
I shall speak up, shall protect you.
I shall fight for you and die
if I must.
Ten times ten give my very life
-- that you live.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 12:29 AM UTC
We hardly fit with our jagged edges
and our heavy breathing, our holes
don't even coincide. Our symmetry
is imperfect, as imperfection can be.
We can't call it home. We're too
edgy to ever do so. It doesn't even
come close to that feeling of
comfort and love. We're not in love,
nor are we friends by any means.
Hardly acquaintances. We wouldn't
lift a finger a finger to help the other
No, this isn't home, love or friendship.
Our weapons are still on us. The poison's
hidden in the secret compartments of the
rings we gifted each other. We never
believed in anything but practicality.
I specially sharpened the blades I
brought with me. I know he loaded
some 'special' bullets in his gun.
We deal like this, like rival gang leaders
It's the only thing that has remained
the same through all these years,
frighteningly comforting in it's stagnancy.
It doesn't even come close to companionship.
It's definition lies somewhere between
hatred, addiction and need. Quiet intimacy
will prevail between us and anyone who walks in,
feels like they're intruding on something a bit
more private and clandestine. Though no one
notices, our spines don't relax even once.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
A broken down Chevy-
Doesn’t that sound like a country song?
My broken down Chevy
Is where my life started and I began to belong.
That little pickup stayed true to its name.
It could pick up and take me anywhere,
Or we could park in a field and I could write,
To me it was all the same.
Being behind its leather wheel
Was a freedom I’ll forever cherish.
Eighteen with nowhere to be
Except driving my Chevy, every joy I could feel.
When I lost my job
I gained an eviction.
But I still had my Chevy
And I had its bed to sleep in.
There was no work in my small town.
I knew I had to leave,
Just my Chevy and me.
We traveled for days to the biggest city we found.
By the time we arrived
My Chevy had begun to sputter,
It shook, it moaned, it stopped.
And there on the highway, my Chevy died.
I knew this day would come-
My Chevy was a ’57.
But it carried me hundreds of miles
To the city in which my new life had begun.
A broken down Chevy-
Doesn’t that sound like a country song?
My broken down Chevy
Is where my life started and I began to belong.
I left it there on the highway.
With no job and only pocket change
I couldn’t keep my beloved Chevy
By towing it anyway.
Now I’m twenty-five
And the head of a publishing company.
I married an artist who always supported me.
Today he waited at home with a surprise.
My broken down Chevy,
Fully restored and brought back to life,
Was in the driveway
With a note taped to the window with the key.
“I believe this is yours
And may I say she’s beautiful!
I found your Chevy on the side of the highway.
Gosh I think it’s been six or seven years!”
“My father was always handy with cars
And he taught me his trade.
I towed your Chevy and meant to sell it
Once I had fixed it up to shine like stars.”
“As I was cleaning the compartments out
I found your old journal
Full of letters you wrote to yourself
And bible verses, all about perseverance, no doubt.”
“Your story inspired me.
It honestly rocked me to my core.
I had lost all hope in myself and the world.
I was fighting cancer, you see.”
“I read your journal every day, every page.
And the more I read, the more I believed
In those verses you treasured so.
I continued restoring your truck, and last year I got saved.”
“My cancer was gone, seemingly overnight.
The doctors couldn’t believe it!
And honestly
Neither could I!”
“I thank God every day
For the story He gave you,
And I thank Him
Because you broke down on that highway.”
“Now I’m returning this Chevy to you.
She shines like a diamond and runs like a river.
I hope you can forgive me but I am keeping your journal-
My granddaughter is fighting cancer now too.”
“Please pray for her and I’ll keep you in my prayers always.
Thank you for being the person you are.
Goodbye and thank you again, my friend.
Like your broken down Chevy,
We’ve been made new; we’re eternally saved!”
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
Take me in your arms, never let me go,
I can't wait to spend countless nights with you, wherever we go.
I want to roll over to your face in the morning, have cute little bad breath kisses,
then we can go make pancakes while the orange juice fizzes.
We can walk to the beach, just a mile from your apartment,
we can lay on the sand and build castles with little compartments.
You can finally teach me to surf, a dream of mine,
until I keep falling and we laugh the rest of the time.
We'll swim to shore with enough time to get ready for dinner,
as we walk under the purple-pink skies the space between us gets thinner.
Until your arm's around mine, you lean in for a sunset kiss.
I kiss right back, our fingers interlocked, a moment of pure bliss.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
**Baggage within
trappings of illusions,
love packed away
in neat little compartments
gathering cobwebs at
makeshift improvisations,
dusting intermittently
if by chance a light
should shine,
never wholly untangling
the snare
mid a labyrinth of
transparent entrapment,
as violin strings continue
to unlatch the same old key**
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
Periodically I hide myself from the world
Chastising them
Punishing them with my absence
My opinions are like bricks before the throwing
With little compromise, I roll my eyes
Hating them
The ones oblivious
Diesel burners, peaceniks, consumers
Sitting contradictions
Simmering catastrophes, an embodiment of what they’re making me
Powerless, with no resort
My impression on this society will be forever minimal
And I bite my tongue with every syllable
I type
Holding judgment, holding on
To the world I was promised
The world I was conditioned for
A world with angels, untouched by violence, corruption or greed
A world we defiled, without animals
A world achieved
Where grass is preserved in museums
In compartments behind glass
I see my part in the reflection, I hate myself more
My impression of this society will be forever minimal
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 12:14 AM UTC
heart turned as heavy as metal
sinking down, it's an uncanny battle
stomach twisting, can you feel it contort?
someone once said that life's a contest of sorts
I've created stories patented for myself
yet they still belong to somebody else
I've found love in nooks and crannies
only for it to be ripped away potently
with confidence, I'll make my move
only to be checkmated with crude
I'll pack my belongings in a metal crater
my head's been submerged underwater
chlorine stains the tips of my hair
I close my eyes and she's not even there
the crowd thinks that they might know her
scream the chorus, play the player
when will you see that the glass's been shattered?
she's viewing herself through minuscule scatters
do you not see that her head's a mess?
she's losing the strive, won't be the best
history is repeating
can you feel the wind?
cold as ice
while she's paper-thin
they drag me out of the pool
unwillingly, I go
the men are worried
the women don't show
the poison burns like fuel and fire
life's a train, it's advancing forward
I imagine myself walking through compartments
everyone's now in a different department
Aug 16, 2024
Aug 16, 2024 at 1:43 PM UTC
I’ve got Nike shoe-boxes filled
with newspaper confetti basketball highlights,
a Lucky Charms cereal prize, a hair clip
from the Homecoming dance, picture after picture
of little month-long memories. I’ve got a dozen
temporary candy box boyfriends
who faded just as quickly as they sparked. I’ll reopen
them occasionally, remind myself why my middle school mind
found it so important to save stale Valentine’s Day lollipops
and balance that with the tender, childish idea
that baby love is the realest love and maybe one day
all those text message breakups would come back to me.
I sort
through each dent my heart has suffered that I stowed away
in compartments, but you,
who’ve seen me through the longest,
have no place under my bed. I’ve got nothing
visible to hold of you because truth be told
you’re only my friend if the lights are out and the door is shut.
I have no pop song sweatshirt that still smells like you,
no cliché letters I’ve soaked with tears, no movie tickets,
no dinner matches or menus or pictures that I could cut
if I hated you enough.
I’d have to collect your sweat in a vile and brew it
into a perfume just so the smell could give me something
disgusting enough to feel when I remember you.
If only I could capture my nightmares, remake the images,
mold your body out of actual clay and light you up
without having to kiss your pelvis. We’ve made a mess of this.
You’re just a flame I forgot to blow out.
You're just a name I left hanging on my mouth.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
I have to make him a turkey sandwich,
crusts cut off, mayo on the left piece of bread,
in two triangle halves every single night
before he goes to sleep on the right side of the bed
with two pillows, fluffed twice each, slippers
tucked neatly underneath the bed skirt.
And every night I wonder
what would happen if I forgot the pickle on the side,
like the one time
we ran out of cheese and my car had a flat tire
and the supermarket was so far, but boy
did he give it to me. I’ve never seen someone count
to one-hundred so fast with their finger taps
before the table flipped. Never have I seen
someone clean up glass so slowly, each piece
thrown in the trash individually
just like my pieces
that have been carved away year after year,
loaf after loaf, as my eyes droop backwards
and rest on his haircut that I give
every six weeks on a Wednesday. Sometimes,
I try to kiss his neck when I let the scissors slip,
but he always reminds me that this slot
is “haircut time” and there’s no necessity in kissing
anyway. And I’ve tried to respect
his attic closet compartments with the key
that had gone missing when he was fifteen,
and I’ve tried to wish on misshapen pieces of cereal
in my bowl because I’m that desperate for a miracle.
Do you know?
Do you know how hard it is to lie next to someone
who you know doesn’t dream of you, not because he doesn’t
want to, but because he can’t. He can’t
do so many things and sometimes I’ll lay out a green tie
on a workday instead of blue just to watch him blow up
because at least that’s a feeling. At least that’s not white walls
and another **** turkey sandwich. And I know that’s sinful,
and I also know that I fold my hands wrong when I pray,
but I’ve tried to shape him for years and all I’ve gotten
is a cast with nothing to fill the mold. And I know my suitcase
has been packed for weeks, but. . . Dear God, you know I’ll never leave.
I save my laundry for Saturdays, don’t tell him why I’m crying
myself back to sleep, and check the fridge one last time
for the right deli meat.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
The way the clock ticks
Smooth away
Spirits dry
Slightly tender ears
Become another breath
A breath a sigh a mess to deal with
A test of zeal
& a box of papers
strewn left
& right
torn & strung about to conceal
the floor
the door
the walls
& the ceiling
naked peach & sweating
standing still like a post, but turning around slowly internally
putting on graces & smiling, sniffing the glass
before frowning & commenting on the values of waiting,
or diving right into the chasm of debt,
he looks handsome
& brutish
like a man best used for feeding
himself, feeding someone else
mere feed
he was food
a cow in a pasture
devouring to continue the feeding
for some dollars each day increasing
‘no worries mate’
a gesture to continue moving
there’s less to do
ensuing deadlines
wave beside the days arrive
sequentially,
enduring through them dutifully
like you must
red stars of sparks string off his limbs
& burn holes in the papers
brown cigarette burns widen & envelop
the papers that are small, the bigger
ones catch alight & fall to the
floor & it spreads
to the door
the walls
& the ceiling
now naked & blue & burning
the red & yellow flame rises high
a candle stands spinning
screaming & fighting & running from foe
who will eat him,
or **** him
he sleeps shivering under stars burning brighter than his own
& the papers are gone
so few left to feed the fire
he collapses
in a heap of soot & ash
he lies naked & black & steaming
panting & huffing like a kid on a balloon
on hands & knees observes the wreck
& sighs to clean the mess before
he becomes accustomed
or bored
he swings a broom around
and a dust pan handily collects the
soot & the wreck doesn’t seem so bad
it still stands & he stays there
in a darken pit, a hole of charred plaster
& carpet,
it seems OK so he stays there
all along the street the candles are snuffed out
they still stand so they stay there
in a row
toe to toe
all together
in compartments
of a box
of matches
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
I found myself rooting for the tiny ant
The spider was trying to trap in its webbed snare,
No thoughts did I spare before swiping a finger,
and helping it make a dramatic escape
As I looked at the spider, left food-less,
Rearrange itself in its meticulous net,
I wondered at the strangeness of this
Little world of ours, and also its pointlessness
We make it seem so rosy and pretty,
Embellish it with garlands of emotions,
But underneath lies the truth of its existence,
Made up of cruelty, chaos and commotion
The Designer painted it beautifully,
But gave it finer embroideries of pain,
He threw in an entire cosmos together,
And arranged it into a food chain
Compartments and more compartments,
Of colour and country and gender galore,
Hustle and bustle to stay put in a labile balance,
That is forever tipped at the cusp of war
We fool ourselves with the sham that our lives
Depend on friendships and love and such stunts,
When what we are, if we think about it,
Is a part, of one gigantic hunt
A hunt for alimentation,
And monetary satisfaction,
And physical satiation,
Does being conditional deserve glorification?
I wonder if I've turned into a permanent cynic,
It may very well be just a phase,
Though the spider would be cursing me for sure,
Not too romantic it is, sabotaging a prey!
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
Why dwell on the comfort
Of dusting off the adversity
That profane the corners
Of our compartments
When we can
Call upon courage
And write for those
Without the strength to crawl out
Of the hollow caves
They live in?
You
And
I
Are blessed with the curse of
Seeing beyond the masquerades
Of others
That it becomes haunting not
To tap into their souls
And wander in the
Caves of their minds
To find the reason behind
The warped interior,
The vague, and sometimes
Vivid Answers to
Why
They're sinking in
Self imposed darkness,
They feel they're slaves
To and in liberation,
They feel they can't be forgiven
For the sins they
Unintentionally created,
They feel so empty and hollow
And dead within that there's
Nothing, but dead spaces
Between heart beats,
They're engulfed in
Flames that they're turning
Everything they caress to ash
With every bit of
Taste,
Touch,
Smell
Lulling us into euphorias
Where fragments of
Sound,
Images,
Fragrances,
Thoughts,
Compound to a jungle of words
That we lose ourselves in,
Perhaps then,
We become a tad bit closer
To finding
Ourselves,
Perhaps.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Useless time begging
Back to the present
Infinite electric waves
Bypassing hidden compartments
Surging together
Heat waves demonstrating
Truth at our very finest
Out bursting cautiously
Into a super nova
Colors exploding throughout
Our imitations
Reminding the reversal
Of times sighing…
Please forgive me.
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC
I fear too much of life
Has been spent living in our
Mismatched silverware drawer.
While knives are always fine,
Never noticing much
What they might cut
Because they haven't sharp eyes;
So accustomed to close quarters,
They just lay there, as
Blind soldiers in wait of orders.
But I'm wary when they
Come out to speak,
Seeking blood, too often it seems.
Nicer when it's just
Butter must be spread
To warm toast instead.
Forks carry their own dangers.
In time, tines disentangled
From secret stainless dustups
That go on in the tray
While attention's drawn away
Can be wielded like daggers,
Impaling olives - or fingers -
That happen to fall in the way.
So painful, though rarely fatal
For those with shots up to date.
It's the others need worrying over;
Sad spoons that never nestle
As they did when they were new.
Uncomfortable now with one another,
Like wishes kissing cold lips,
Smooth hips never swaying to music
As they must have done once before,
Arranged in deranged patterns
In plastic compartments.
I'd rather take them all out,
Line them along the kitchen floor
For lessons in ballet or the samba.
I might learn to dance, again, too.
Sometimes, I wish we could eat with
The still-perfect gold set
We save for those who don't live here;
Drink fine wine every day from those
Dusty gilded glasses
Stocked in the corner cabinet.
It might feel more real then,
If they eventually get here...
We'd be prince and princess
Everyday, then, wouldn't we?
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
*did you buy all of this on credit
and can you do without
going to ceremonies for awhile
look what higher learning
and empty rituals have given you
a distrust for humanity
and all that's truly valuable
are you a nihilist or a solipsist
what a life to be so twisted
like an elliptical esophagus
so strange the way we spell things
what would we do without
spellcheck or a dictionary these days
is a thesaurus a dinosaur or a literary device
the swelling went down
right in time for your dialectical revival
while didactic strange attractors are strangely repellent
selective attackers leave your marriages despondent
disparaged orthodontists leave fluids on your face
still you wipe your chin with sandpaper
and leave greasy finger stains in their place
fluoride is a bargain complete with its own argument
and quite often batteries are not included
but that doesn’t mean you’ll never use them
for what's a *** toy to do
if its lacking its adjacent latex compartments
or if you're really just not in the mood
i guess this human body will have to do
grooving to the music is all about our choosing to
becoming outdated or faded like a tax evader
these equations are meaningless
when you are fermented with libations
if you drink more amber liquid would you be negated
relevant for a moment and then
just as quickly discarded as a piece of paper
the receipts we diligently saved
are just as well used to light your fireplaces*
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
We endeavor to construct boxes and file folders
This life being ****** complex
And messy to boot, so we approximate sanity
By filling compartments and writing thumbnail biographies,
And even though she packed the costume admirably
(Already forty, mind you, but nowhere near gone to fat)
Julie Newmar had already filled both outfit and niche
(And never mind Halle Berry’s turn,
Different raiment for a different time, after all,
And one suspects the next iteration of said slinky supervillainess
Will wear nothing more than feline-shaped ****** rings),
Not to mention she’d already entered our collective consciousness
With a frothy Noel novelty (unsubstantial, inconsequential
In and of its ownself, perhaps, but then one considers
The version foisted off on the populace by that woman
Who appropriated the moniker of the Blessed ******
All phoned-in faux Betty Boop, and one reconsiders)
So this was who she was, the book closed and sealed
(English only, never mind the other three tongues she spoke
Plus three more she proficiently purred in.)
They say when she died, she did not go gently, as it were,
But screamed and yowled for all she was still worth,
And maybe it was the cancer, certainly enough to do the job itself,
But perhaps it was the notion
That her era of innuendo and intimation was all done,
That she was transitioning to the static, to becoming a legacy,
A permanence that was stalking her,
Murderous, insatiable, inexorable.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Chaos is brewed and entwined in my psyche
For when I restrain it,I fail to be free
For when you suffocates it, I die solely
I offered my compartments, the evil, the good
I offered my solace,goodness and madness
All uncensored on the bitter sweet console
But it tainted your soul, made you ooze blood
Thanks for your extended handshake of peace
I gently received it as it sailed through my ails
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
My heart yearns for what once was
my mind fighting to hold the line in a quiet battle
Time, relentlessly persistent in its attempts to erase
dragging my life forward into fading memory
Moments attenuating, absorbed by the past
distorted in all but the essential
But their essence is distilled in my soul
dormant in an archived strength and purity
Occasional mindbursts of beauty are released
refusing to be contained or denied
A certain scent in the air, a certain quality of light
a lyric of song, a touch of breeze...all catalysts
Spontaneously transported into a joyful state
I'm consumed by a déjà vu of carefree ambiance
Bejeweled compartments spill their contents
washing over my mind in a composite nostalgia
Familiar waves of concentrated being saturate
my existence for a compelling glimpse of the idyllic
In those fleeting reveries of peaceful contentedness
I feel completely at home within myself
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
I should get up and write.
Write about our present,
And how unlikely is our future.
Write about the scars on her left wrist
Which you saw only because her bracelet slipped.
Write about how she never gave up,
And how you never gave up on asking;
Maybe I should get up and write
About the shackles in our stomachs,
The chains on their chairs,
The change that is so hard to anticipate
When your fainting eyes
Read news of homicide every night;
When your voice fades away in reason,
And not in volume;
You often find yourself talking loudly
Only to realize that the echoes of your sound
Is amplified by the emptiness of what you’re saying
So why speak?
So why speak, when you can’t get her to listen,
When her eyes shift between your glances
To look for someone she actually wants to hang around;
When her fingers do not point at your words,
But at her favorite photos
Which she goes over 10 million times a day.
So why speak?
When your vocal chords
Are replaced with rocks and stones,
So you throw your messages away
Hoping you get them straight to the heads
So why speak?
When words rattle cages
But tyrants
They live in mansions.
But we’re still alive aren’t we?
Our blood runs
Through the wired compartments of our brains,
Like rivers rushing with ideas,
And I fell for the oceans in her eyes.
Our heart still beats
Quicker at winter than it does at spring,
And I guess it gets chilly every time we meet.
Our bodies still believe in music,
We could still challenge the world
By spiraling against it,
By jumping upward
Downing motions of the rain,
By looking at the horizons
And still believe
There’s a lot more for us to see.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
If you could watch a plane crash in slow motion
You’d see a hundred lives slip away
Into the jet stream.
From row 17, seat B, you’d see
A freckled child lose their Legos,
Parents,
Youth.
And the man in row 22 would take one long, last
Look at his wife
And think only of love, love, love.
The overhead compartments will open
And spill out the wares,
The jackets that kept them warm
And the computers that once lit
With their life’s work
And thus, the world seems to shatter.
Do they cry? Do they have time?
Do they pray? Do they lose faith in God?
Do some gain it?
No one but the dead know the true tragedy.
As the tray tables dislodge
And the sky falls
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 9:44 AM UTC