she wanted to be skinny.

     she wanted to ignore the skin on her body
     until it hung loosely off her skeleton
     like a wrinkled shirt on a hanger
     that needed ironing.

she wanted to be a stick
so that she could fit through the
spaces in the dark of trees
and understand how they fed off of
themselves.

     she wanted to know what it was like
     to have knives instead of collarbones,
     carving off the little chunks of fat,
     and throwing them to the side, letting the
     festering rats devour the residue of
     fourteen years of life.

she wanted to have hips that served as
mountains, looking like the alps,
with climbers covered in furs throwing hooks
over the niches in her body.

     she wanted a ribcage that would hold
     even the mightiest bird, without letting
     a single feather breach her defenses,
     never letting a ferocious caw escape her,

because she wanted to be thin.

In this, I feel
Shaky hands that cannot type
My breath unable to catch like coats on a hanger
Chocked by garbage dispensers in mid flight

I have no one to blame but myself
For letting your smile that stabs like daggers,
Into my vulnerable organs now spilled on the floor,
all the more craddled in my now bloodied hands

You could say its my lack of conviction
or my social manners in dealing with all the more composed

Your eyes that catch mine and rip open the doors to my early demise

Yet, These intense emotions are all in my head
This lair where you slumber and never wake
because you are not really here

Your stay is that of a cheap motel fly, who zips and zaps
your noise quick and sharp

How all the others cannot see the glow that surrounds you
is beyond any words I could compose

It is known that I do, because it is I that is motionless from the amount I inject
The osmosis of emotional intake, has left me dead on the ground.

How naive of me.
So typical.
Not surprising.
Why do I bother with you?
You’ve changed.
You’re different.
You will never be the same person
I fell in love with in my childish years.
Hell,
It didn’t even last a year.
We didn’t even know each other for a year!
We don’t even know each other still.
Yet,
I am still obsessed.
What’s wrong with my MIND!?
You said you love me.
But, if you loved me,
Why would you crush this heart of mine?
Or was it your plan?
To keep me addicted?
To keep me coming back?
Do you only keep in touch
To find out if my feelings for you are still the same?
I try to ask.
Alas, you have no answers.
You keep me on this cliff hanger of love and obsession!
How evil of you.
How sick of you.
Do I want you to tell me
You love me no longer?
Or am I afraid to hear those words?
My gut tells me you do.
My head tells me to forget.
I have someone new.
Someone better than you.
Why am I so stuck on you then?
Can I please get back what I gave before?
I trust you with it, no longer.
Can I please get back what I gave you?
My bruised, shattered ******* HEART!

I am the gushing river's intent,

Somersaulting waterfall's

still moment, just before

it's touch down on the ground.

Blowing wind's sweet desire,

in it's core to carry pollen on and fertilize.

The upward ****** of the wave,

to touch the crust before the fall.

The lovers' cliff hanger moment

before the lips touch and

meld together in the first kiss.

The seed's yearning am I,

to break the crust and come out

to find a place in the sun

Unknowing, unaware.
Doesn't see, so it doesn't care.
Hanging up - Just like the bones,
Limp and lifeless and no one knows.
By the neck, the hanger holds;
Touched by the dark and growing cold.
The beauty gone, the color faded;
The fight is over, the survivor gave in.
Cursed by the mind, tainted by darkness,
Victim of everything, eyes dull and spark-less.
Nothing left, the coffin closes.
The door shuts early
                         On the Pink Sweater's Closet.

i stand on the hanger floor
as the crowds tickles in
with somber eyes and
tear stained cheeks

i stand there
and watch these people weep
watching as my friends say goodbye
but i can't help it

as i feel nothing
as i laugh internally
knowing my time is next
and no one will cry for me

i start to move
and say to everyone
"I'll see you in week"
and ******* like regular

we crack jokes
about how the year will fly by
flying over afghanistan
and the stupid PT belts we have to wear

i look down at my watch
the seconds drag on
like we're trapped in a vortex
we just can't escape

a voice comes over the P.A system
"5 more mins and then we get the formation started"
as more tears stream down
the faces of family members

i make the rounds to say goodbye
it doesn't hit me
til i walk out the hanger door
i have a week, just seven days

til i am on the other side
watching it allover again
but it will be me
standing in formation

ready to leave

"you are so comfortable"

but have the pelvic bones
that I knew not of
existing anatomically
greeted your elastic skin?

hard bone on hardwood
friction on my outer flagella
pangs in my pits
this continues to concave

an artificial frame;
deemed healthy
after an unsatisfied lifetime
I remain as so
I am a wire hanger
draping fabric
awkward angles

I beg your pardon
I am far from comfortable

Our salvation taking
another high-life (Lip)
The middle-income lip
Our lips leaked
Being possessed the kiss
on empty

Humpty Dumpty sat
on her Lego lips
Singers the Talking Heads
Where are the feds to late
Those stolen lips
State of a wedding trips
Rainbow chalk the state was
on lip nightmare call
Being stalked (Lumber Jack)

The devil filler up poverty
The world being pulled
Push her lip up
                    > >

Arrowsmith bow and arrow
                    >>
  Losing elasticity lips go
UPSTATE gravity

"What an under(state)meant"
"The press (God Bless)
    the golden child
     lips filling in
       the gaps
What!! no comment"

 So sad we need the happy
Irish lad too many
    Sugar Dads
lip recession deadlines to meet
The curveball
Another sip we joined the
Navy but eyeshadow deep-over
the edge gray
The Seal had an unusual tail
Her lips fast food drive smashed
Her Meal

The peace lips blew far away
"Medieval Swords heart lips
            will pay"
Times come and go its excruciating
Lips went too far always mating
Imitating people takes a whole village
Of pain

But the spiritual blessing rain
In Woodstock concerts
What perks to gain
The acid trip music we can
sip each other's lips

    Now if this wasn't passion
What a state got smeared
Like a crime scene
of fashion
Her lips could rise
Like the Millenium

         Max
Playing the jazz sax
Still the income tax

But the state in a crisis
of sales tax
Star a stage minimum wage
All the states we travel her lips
The water stays refreshing where
On her body, he really sees it on
her lips nowhere else

How many states can you
count on your finger
Long lip Ranger

The Victoria Secrets
The Tra la the bra's on the
Five-star Hilton Hotel
hanger

Holding onto her guns
Going right or to the left
Powerful lips he went
off the cliff

Getting Burned and
the State tax
You earned
The Swearing
Her lip talk so caringly
Can we move her lips to
another state more cautiously
How her hips look like
they will inflate

I am not a painting by
your candlelight fate
I felt like a tax right off
Taxi yellow race her lips
on the meter money bluff
I ended up in the state of
*Michigan
Tricks are ****
Like a lip magician

Kentucky home was barrels
of Bourbon
I never said I wanted a drink
my name is Robin
Going to Deleware
what hardware did anyone care
So humble like the bumblebee
She was way too soft as her software

Have gun we travel but have lips we rumble

We need courage this world of states
can be savage
Gold bonds of "Dynasty European"
top dollar vultures mean
funds that's a grand entrance

Now I see how these states
start to unravel
California here I come right
back where
my lips started from

Her upper society lip could use
Champagne and caviar
The star was getting fat a nice trim
Grumpy beard make it a
short tax cut with him
Text and tweets no lip sweets
Rocky Colorado mountain men

French lips played art
Like Van Gogh perfect 10
Scenic route crazed
So many states should
be sued overly sexed suites

In Alaska, she was on a freeze

All the money in the world she got New York Token

All I asked the waitress
for State fair pie
My lips could have
used *Sweet Peach * so
pucker up
Don't be a sucker
Alabama state trooper
in Kansas City

What a spell click of heels

Georgia is always on my mind
Is New York only a state of
Frank Sinatra singing mind
What a big foot in her mouth
Nancy Sinatra dark lips Goth
State boots softly made
for loving that's just
what lips do one of these
Days my lips are going to
gloss all over you
Who's the Boss
So fasten your lip belts
The spiritual state always does the cross

Bumpy ride (Bette Davis) Eyes
Taking a trip to the end of the
boot of Sicily vineyards
Whats mine Jailbirds
She cut her lip when she was
in (Connecticut Movie cut)
On the Mystic Seaport lips were
getting hot ****** fit

Like a state disease fire pit
State of a lip disaster
But the state couldn't
resist her
Ending up in Arizona
Something is swizzling
it's not Kevin Bacon

Make no mistake when you plan
a state trip you better have your
weapon ready
Mafia bullets Bonnie and Clyde
they rob *Banks money Lips

A large fearsome oaf walks about
swampy body stimulates my ****
folds of fat that look like a swamp
Its gleaming and severe eyes should have scared me,
but I choose to leave it be. Since now,
I am in control.
Self-aware.
Omniscent.
There is space for only one monster
You are written by the creator, he has died
Papercuts, everywhere
I’m the Creator now
I have all power
I make myself queen
I write, and it warps your reality
So, I command that, you,  
The monster will die
Your eyes yanked from their sockets
And chopped and served
On a pretty pink plate
Your brain will be poached in
My Brain Boiler
Your fingers will cook in my Finger Fryer
Your heart, put on display, Heart Hanger
Your blood will be included in my Rémoulade
A rather runny Rémoulade
So, I guess,
I’m the monster

Little pockets of sound that skyrocket around
Words: verbs, adjectives, nouns

Words can get me steaming or lucid dreaming
And it leaves me silently screaming to see people consider words a weapon
Like they mean to cause harm
Well let me remind you I have the right to bear arms

Just because what’s on that page is mine
Doesn’t means it aligns with the ideals in my mind
Writing is expression, not confession
So when I write about a character who is confused and depressed
Buys a used gun and a bulletproof vest
And shoots up his classmates in the middle of a test
Because everyone ignored the signs of his anger
Doesn’t mean there’s a trench coat on my hanger

But nevertheless, they labeled me me a threat
Better yet, they focused on me instead of the 15 year old addicted to cigarettes
and took my words out of context
Because they are con-text
Well I’m pro-text and I protest that they suggest that I’m hopeless
and I know this coldness only hones my focus on my magnum opus

But where would we be without controversy?
The indirect side effect to freedom of speech
A beacon for speakin’ your mind without your rights being breached

It’s all in the name
When you write, you’re right
But when you advocate censorship, then you’re ****
My two cents are worth a million bucks
So who cares if they contain a million *****?
F-words might be wayward but in a way they aren’t F-words, they’re A-words

Because all words are equal on surface
Well, until one strikes a nerve with a conservative
Who, without even meeting me, determined me to be
The next **** Germany

I didn’t write a story about a school shooter
I wrote it about how one impressionable kid became a slave to the page
And lost himself in the rage as an unfortunate consequence

And it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense
That the school would let themselves fall victim to a nonexistent threat
Brought on by a few paragraphs on a pair of half ripped papers stapled and
Paper-clipped to the rest of my script

You can place the blame but you became that same shameful shell
Hell, you can expel me, but you can’t compel me
To stop yelling again with this paper and pen
Or a stage and a mic
Going without words is like an endless hunger strike

Being voiceless ain’t a choice for this
When I protest, I prefer to be heard
A whole lot can happen with a few simple words

Your mother's washed
your red patterned
woollen jumper,
the Christmas one
we call it, as that
was when
you wore it last.

She hung it on
a wooden hanger
in the hall to dry.

Seeing it there,
silent and empty,
opened in me
a deeply wounded,
unuttered cry.

Later when dry,
I took it down
to turn
the right way in
and fold,
then pressed against
my cheek and chest
to hold,
as if
for a moment
you were there again,
your beating heart,
your pulse of life,
your solid being,
but I knew you weren't,
just the coloured wool,
the red patterned jumper,
that just been washed scent.

I thought you immortal;
how sad that is,
that illusion love made,
that you will always be there, lie,
that you will
never never die.

I clutched
the jumper tight;
tried to sense you there,
your pounds of flesh,
your gentle self,
your body
within the wool.

How sad that is,
they'll say,
the old sad fool.

Your mother washed
and dried your
red patterned
woollen jumper
yesterday, today
I placed it on
a plastic hanger
and put away.

Next stop Goodwill

Wearing thin and edges frayed
An old jacket with empty pockets
Saved for what…closet fodder
Mixed in with relevance
Old memories of that time
When winter meant something
And warmth was welcomed

Missing a few buttons, threadbare
Elbows faded from too much thought
Once a good friend, a perfect fit
Clinging to a wire hanger, fabric wings grow
Staring at the new fashion, in style
Unread leather everyone sees
Can’t wait to touch…peruse

Spring brings flowers and cleaning
A black plastic trash bag…hefty
Tossed to the bottom in a heap
A tax deduction…space reduction
Soon to be forgotten, if not already
Worn out, replaced by current, different, unique?
Next stop Goodwill

I remember broken windows,
cupboard doors hanging off hinges and
kitchen draws that did not close properly.

I remember the lock on the bathroom door
was one of the few things that did work in our house. And
how the back of the lock was blunted
by butter knives trying to open it from the outside.

In the mornings, the living room curtains remained closed.
Sun begged to shine in but was blocked out
locked out. Lost keys were a frequent problem

I remember sister coming home from West End raving,
blasting house'n'garage out of charity shop speakers
she had saved up for. How she would walk in at dawn
bass lines vibrate me out of sleep and I sit up
on squeaking bunk bed, sleep glued eyes
while she tries to explain what that high feels like

I was nine years old. I liked to fix things.
I remember 9 o'clock starts at school meaning nothing
****** daytime TV; I mostly watched Big Break and Count Down.
I remember the silver hanger,
I twisted and fitted into the back of the TV
so it played pixels that painted pictures rather than
a screen of white noise.

I remember the shouting
that deep dark thick rouge that stained
the glass table. The depression.

I remember sitting on my window sill looking down
at the people off to work whilst we stay in. Doors.

Curtains drawn
mum laying on the sofa
Dead to us.

Cowboys and sidekicks,
were not the only heroes
We idolized, and ran to see
at those "Saturday picture shows."

There was "Superman, and "Batman",
and that magic word, "SHAZAM."
The "cliff-hanger" serials
we hoped would never end.

There were all types of villains-
even "space invaders"-
It was then, that I changed my mind-
to become, a "Caped Crusader."

As those Saturdays passed by-
how I wished that I could fly-
And all I needed was a cape
to soar throughout the sky.

I grabbed a towel, to make a cape,
the largest towel that I could find-
And I didn't tell anyone
what was really on my mind.

I went thru the kitchen
out the door, into the yard-
Mom thought I went out to play,
so I caught her off her guard.

A couple of the neighbor kids,
I now call my "entourage"
gathered with excitement
as I climbed, to the top of the garage.

I stood there with my legs apart-
I could feel the pulsing of my heart-
hands, braced against my hips-
then, the tightening of my lips-

I knew that somewhere in the city-
Crime was out there brewing-
and then I heard my mother's voice-
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!!!

Well, I tell you folks, there's not a tone
that can evoke such heightened fear-
And the superpowers I thought I had,
suddenly disappeared(as did the other kids)

There was screaming, and yelling-
and amidst the clamor and the din-
Neighbors, looking out their windows-
saying, "it's just that kid again."

I didn't know what she was saying-
but I'll never forget that frown,
And her words  got a little worse
when she had to help me down

Banished to the bedroom-
on my bed, with the cape that I had wore-
Contemplating what dreadful fate
my future had in store.

I heard the doorknob turning-
then dad stepped thru the door
He knew I had been crying
as my head hung toward the floor.

What I thought would happen, didn't-
as he sat down on the bed-
then with his hand he gently brushed
the top of my head.

He explained to me the difference
of what was real, and fantasy-
That those movies are adventures,
not real, just fun to go and see.

Here I am, seventy-two and still alive-
and sometimes I wonder
how I've managed to survive

On my mantle are two pictures
that make me happy, and make me sad-
for those real superheroes-
They're my mother, and my dad.

copyright: richard riddle, August 05, 2014

what's the point of buying a portrait if you are blind?
nothing i would see is worth my precious time—
just more metal, bad skin, and tired, jealous eyes

senseless sensibility is a cold kettle boiling,
nonsense steam fogs up the jaded glass.
draw a picture with your finger,
smile as it fades to apathy,
all that lovely water turned to gas.

i lick my palms to play pretend with illness,
stay in bed with the quilt kicked off-kilter,
crawling with the brood of the six-legged past;
they are eating the nests of the threatened, bitter future

change the cable channels in my brain,
but only stations two and five are clear,
and eight if a wire coat-hanger antenna
is bent at an angle from my dominant ear
so i can sit, content, and watch the weather

sneaking in exhaust from every orifice
gets me passed out stupid every time;
a coping mechanism,
coated **** between the gears,
and only this pollution left behind.

One amazing hanger holds my tuxedo.
One clever little 5 ounce piece of plastic and metal conformed into the shape of a bony set of shoulders carries the slim weight of my most formal outfit. It hangs proudly draped in shiny black, pretending to be me when I myself don't don the suit.

Once my affair is over I replace the material to its home. Dressing the hanger as I did myself. Pants first, folded width wise over the pleated front then length wise over the bar that so nicely holds them. Then the shirt fronted with a dozen or more ruffles goes upon the plastic-ly skeletal shoulders. Around the shepherds hook goes the cummerbund and bowtie, both relaxed as if ready to take some time off. Finally the form fitted jacket falls delicately into place, like a foot into a sock. It knows where it belongs, always the exterior, protecting the snow white shirt it envelops. Now the entirety of the contents of the hanger slip inside the black plastic body bag intended to hold such articles. Then as if a corpse, it hangs in my closet until next time.

Persona of void
Snippets taken from a cluster of characters
This is who you are
A collage of people
Devoid of Self
Like a stone covered in moss
You are consumed
An empty coat hanger
Ready to be draped in any garment
But no matter which face you decide to wear
Nothing seems to fit just right
And the mask you sport
Somehow always tends to slip

Do you people know.
How much this **** gets real?
Do you know how it makes my heart drop?
Throw-up.
So many Amore chunks.

You ever hung a persons tongue from a wire hanger?
Then let them convulse.
I'm about to do that on my nickel wound stirngs, I'll never stop having a pulse.
I got the only pulse.

Iv'e destroyed every vein in my body with notes of
putrefying chaos beauty.

SCREAM. SHRIEK!

The jazz tones palpitate my tongue,
chatter my teeth,
destruct my *****.
The ones in my feet

Like drugs
only positive
motive based
rather than sordid.

All things are bruises
if you look hard enough
symphony of colorful E's.
positive, negativity.

Skram, ,Dock, Cross, Plot.
Rotatilled rows of pounding chest, human humanity.

The epic of chimpanzee.

Never understanding.
Being alone.
I will never be anyone else
Anonymous
I atone.

i wish i could make all my i's lowercase.

Freeverse, with a dial tone,

Trying to call out to every person by undeniable tension and catharsis
like rigor mortis death ligaments,
such purposeful
pretty

I believe every single woman/man
creating this. This
means more to my spirit.
than being sad.

Who should desire
A clear mirror
Of perfect likeness
Lies hideous fear

Look, see what we see
Sad doppelganger
Ethereal clone
Leaning, wall hanger

All flaws magnified
Every evil, too
Simplify ev’ry line
Ever mistake – rue

A mirror well smudged
Truly desired
The traits that are so
Nobly admired

And so the Eighth of November
Has come dusting off our shoulders
High-chested, heart's crossed:
America's judgement day.

And it came, like a sudden halt of a
Cliff hanger
Or a pause to an unfinished sentence,
The irony of the aftertaste -

His old man broken-hearted
Slumped anxiously in his chair
As the screen bluntly illuminates
Our long awaited nightmare.

My heart wrenched at the sight
Of his shattered face
As though hope itself became
A hopeless, endless chase.

Our path is at its foggiest
Almost unseen with naked eyes
And we had drained all our energy
To try and make things right.

But as the former says:
No matter what happens,
"The sun will rise again in the morning."

I'm still hung up
like:
I’m a shirt on a hanger
emotions on my sleeve
seems everything tailored
excuse me:
if I’m brief
or I’m sounding like a boxer but my curiosity
leads to me being awkward
so,
miss;
see.
I’m begging for your pardon
or at least a small chance to be a tulip in your
garden
a chance to be a stand out from all the grass that
gets you bothered or a chance at second glance the
solution to your problem

The night was rainy, hot and humid. It was the kind of night that populates steamy, black and white, noir movies where someone is murdered. The stars seemed reduced to sloshing behind moldy gray clouds, as damp and listless as seaweed in the surf.

“Let’s go see a movie,” Sophy suggested, as she brought up the Fandango website on the 70” smart TV. This quickly drew a brouhaha of excited interest.

“Ooo!, Bullet Train,” Anna said. “Elvis!” Lisa gushed.
“Where the Crawdads sing!” Sunny gasped.
“Super pets!” Leong declared, pointing - producing groans all around - THAT was a no-go.
“Maverick!” I said. “I could do that,” Sunny agreed, “he’s crazy but I’m a Cruise fan.” she added.

In the end we decided to do a movie marathon with “Maverick” that night and “Elvis”, “Bullet Train” and “Where the Crawdads sing,” on Sunday.

As we ordered our treats at the theater concession stand, a tall, skinny, spotted, teenage boy attempted to flirt with Lisa. He smiled at her as confidently as a lizard, but sagged, like a shirt whose coat hanger was removed, when she pointedly ignored him.

Movement stirs within womb of thought;
spellbound in fluid sac, fetally curled in
warmth; neither blooming in mind or
heart as host is indecisive; concept mote.

mind blank; confused as...

dubious action causes shame, bearing of
birth unwanted; incestuous violations,
sexually abused as crimson feather blooms
within body too young to blush; thoughts
in flaming anger flushed.

drenched in attrition...

passionate disdain of horrid disgust; in hand,
hanger of mass destruction; a fetal demise
plays against familial distrust, inside mind
combusts; a finger pointed, says, young eyes
beguiled and flamed their lust.

innocence stolen..

in back alley clinic, I extract what is just,
aftertaste, body refuting life flushed;
pysche destroyed, used like someone's toy,
chastity drained from eyes; no longer angelic;
turned cold and coy, ambivalence to destroy.

devious ploys invade anima of woman-child,
turned frigid of emotions; used and abused,
even though given emancipation rights; making
fledgling choices; in voices, now foul-tongued.

still young....

dumbfounded within...

yet, fetally unsprung...

she was 10 ,
and love was measured in bruises
in her house ,
and when father got home from
work
she and her brother would race to find
the best hiding place .
her tears picking up pace with each
foot step that she heard .
she wouldn't dare to utter a word as she saw
his shoes , too close to her face .
she hid under the bed ,
hoping that springs and sheets
were enough to keep her safe .

she caught a glimpse of her brothers toes ,
sticking out from the space under the closet door .
father moved toward him ..

she felt herself **** in a breath .

father would skin him
and wear him with pride
and fold him upon a wire hanger with the
rest of the
coats
in that closet .
........
that night , they counted up their cuts and scars and bruises and brokeness ,
and decided that they had collected just enough to move away .
and so ,
they packed blankets
and apples ,
and not oranges because they were both allergic ,
and 5 nickles and 7 pennies she had been saving up for a doll ..
and they snuck out the front door ,
but they both hardly thought of it as sneaking
because father was sleeping with a shine in his skin
and shine in a bottle that was at his fingertips .

they crossed the street
and a light , so bright smacked their vision ,
came at them before they knew it was a light .
but they awoke in clean jeans and white t-shirts
with their backpacks still on their backs -
feeling as light as air , and walking on clouds .
someone had spit-shined the roads --
they seemed to sparkle like gold .
and mother was at the end of the glittering path ,
smiling that angel smile she always had on in the mornings
before the morning when they dressed all in black .
they looked about to see gates made of mother's necklaces ,
and smelled the sea salt
and knew they were

**home .

Have you grown tired of being worn?
Hung loosely without care,
I apologize for ignoring the wrinkles
on your torso like a frown forming
across the lips, neglected in ignorance
like the iron trying to iron, not on.
Do you like being worn, sweater?
the coat hanger, your straight jacket,
restraining movement, limiting use
Because your attitude tore holes in seams
disappointing my skin, breaking the warm,
Allowing the cold to break the stitches,
Slowly unraveling, but you're still here,
In the back, pondering usefulness, sweater.
I don't know if I'll see you again,
But the moth ***** are collected memories,
Patching up holes, to make you whole.

Please do not sing me to sleep
For I might crumble under the weight of your harmony.
Please do not look at me with those wide, bright eyes
For I might look away from the sight of such faultlessness.

Please do not read to me,
Nor speak to me with a poet’s articulation.
Leave me be with the thoughts of your imperfections
For I might drown at your touch.

I am the girl who falls for the words;
I am the girl with the weak knees and the stutter
Whenever you walk into the room.
I am the girl who will love the sound of your hum,

And the feel of your hands.
Just as easily as a pencil,
I will break under the weight of affection.
I will be carried away by the expressions of your timbre,

So please do not leave me at a cliff-hanger;
Do not let me become captivated
By the stressed syllables and the curve of your laugh.
Please do not break me by the sound of your voice

For just like the words I am fragile –
I am the girl who falls for them.
I am the girl with the lyrical thoughts,
Merely captivated by your lyrical being.

                                                              - g.d.

Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
          under stars
          imitating
     broken curbside glass--
     over crunching gravel miles
          measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
          and squinting, midnight eyes...

Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
     reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.

Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...

                                        coats are homes
                                             for hands
                                    rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.

                                   * * *

Listing hard, adrift for years
     water-logged and pocked--
                    no anchor--
shredded sails and leaning masts
                    tell stories
                  of deck fires:
                   leaping rats,
             and charred strakes

Clear deck,
               empty hold,
                              abandoned helm.
                     this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
          down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
          on midnight walks.

Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.