You're like a window
Light shines through
But it's dark inside

Cardigans for Curtains
All those lovely shapes, beside
Depending on the weather
Sometimes you're blue (Don't forget I can see through)
Sometimes you're black
Sometimes stars get stuck
           Fixation, Oxygen deprivation
Where would we be without you...?
                    dot, dot, dot, Question

The stars get stuck in the cracks
Obviously a metaphor for your flaws
And these lines/curves/obscurities
                  of my vision
Help me see you

Prism, dancing, and trying to age like wine
Getting, getting better all the time

Reflect it back
   Childhood
Magnolia leaves
Currently being abandoned
             Streets
Real Estate
   And different Paint

Then College
NOT taking you're money
"Too bad, see you next time honey"

Lanterns and Moths like houseguests
   Here to assess the property damage
You are not Real Estate

You are a Window
Light shines through

Ivy like a crown
Curtains like a blanket
You're looking from the corner
Feeling like the abandoned streets
Ex boyfriend like kids throwing stones
                      their blind, so they usually miss...you're beauty

You may crack, fracture, fractal
But you are Urban
                   There will be renewal

Here comes the repairman (Not that you need a man)
            Band-aids & stickers
Heartache like a stomachache
And he's looking in

There's the Windowsill
Light Shines through

You are more than a Window
But it's dark inside

Would that my life
carried the pomp and confidence
of a bombastic poem
an overwrought daytime drama

that bad action movie with the guy
who’s too cool for this world

Would that my rhymed greetings
always trumpet a joyful salute
blasting awake the tired and sad
rendering all introversion moot

Would that an invitation
for a beer a my place
be a more coveted prize
than a free trip to space

Would that every whipped up snack
be a culinary masterpiece
gasping in ecstasy my houseguests
cling to their seats

Would that the very tone of my voice
render women to squirm and swoon
render babies to giggle
and songbirds to croon

Would that any awkward silences
be scrupulously sifted out
cold cut conversations segued from hours
to clipped and cleverly crafted banter

Would that I’d compose the songs
that bring young lovers close
that wrench tears from the eyes
of those more cynical than most

Would that the clip of my canter
be the cadence of the soundtrack
of enlightenment

Would that my goodbyes be
an epic flood of emotion
my friends and colleagues
all so grieved to see me going

Would that in life
I be bigger than death
and in death I be
bigger than life.

...

But what would all that be
would that even be me?

We met during a meteor shower
at a party on Cloud Nine
And we were high, high, high
         out of our minds

Drinking the Elixir of Life
     From Vampire bartenders
The bumble bee of time
                whose sting is reality
And idealism is a crime

You were trying to plant trees
with seeds inside rain drops
Like Redwoods and Populus tremuloides

I  think your father was a giraffe made out of sticks from the Swahili language
              by the carpenter that is your mother
Who you look like

I wonder what you would carve from the
   wood of your harvest
A Wife like the Blue Fairy?

But you only saw in colors of green
With absinthe stuck in your teeth
you wear windchimes and windmills like earrings
and hummingbirds nesting in your ears
Your blood is honeysuckle

You caught me a Shooting Star,
              Calling me Eyelashes and Pretty dresses
I  like it best when the stars fall,
sizzle sizzle pop Like the beginning of time
and water fighting for its Life

I asked you, "Have you ever cut down a tree?"
            Pause button lingers on your lips
"What does that feel like?" I ask.
Your reply, "Hot, like the burn on your chest from the sword you made for the King of Aliens."
"He was just an Ex boyfriend" I reply.

You continue your work, eyeing as ghosts
     linger like houseguests on my shoulder pads
Pretending to be my consciousness
I put my morals in the recycling bin last week.
     And threw my soul into a Wishing Well.

You said you were going deep sea memory diving.
Amnesia a Past time, last time, previous life girlfriend you had
Who cheated on you with Reincarnation

You say that's why the dinosaurs
are extinct

I ask you if you need a ride home in my Time Machine.
It's made out of cardboard and childhood memories.

My mom tried to sweep
clean the cigarette burns on the armrest,
and turned the plastic-cracked
lampshade away from rare houseguests.
The arrow-shaped gap melted
at the middle and leaked down
the shade like a stopped-
up gutter. Climbing out her bedroom
window, she knelt on the rotten
mint shingles and tossed matted
maple leaves as indiscriminately
as rock salt onto the glassy sidewalk
drinking in the overhead halo
of Penelec Electric and pine needles.

Needles—

The red biohazard suitcase
in the dining room is packed
full for distribution
in a Philadelphian switchyard.

City of Brotherly Burning Barrels
and railroad-tie benches—
but not for dressing up suburban
meditation gardens, or housing
yellow jackets and half-melted
Army men. For sitting, sleeping,
and supplying calf splinters
for small talk along the Schuylkill
River, watching the cell lights
of Eastern State get swallowed
whole by the systematic tall grass,
one by one, thanking some blessed
something for their freedom
in the boxcars, their *** and Lucifer
matches, and each other.

We were just friendly at first. After we created a connection, they may have even turned into something like a friendly neighbor. They may linger outside, maybe even make it to the front porch, but if they knocked on the door they were met with no response. My heart is locked from the inside. No one has a copy of the key. 

They wait on the steps before turning away and heading home.

If they even make it to this step. 

I became good at avoiding making connections and embracing “the stranger in passing.” We may quickly wave, smile, but avoid something more. Just a stranger in passing. Never making it to my door.

My walls were strong. I was assisted by my friends that shared their heartbreak stories.

My family helped place the foundation, making sure it was safe and secure.

Brick by brick I laid the more they bragged about getting laid.

It was those closest to me that made sure I only had one key. When those you are close to reflect the people you are trying to keep out, you know **** well I didn’t make copies.

I wasn’t prepared for the latest invasion. They didn’t wait for me to answer my door, but pulled apart the walls of my heart, flexing and slipping through the barrier I had worked so hard to build. They made themselves at home, despite my lack of hospitality.

Parts of my walls broken down. I was left susceptible to intrusion. I was left vulnerable. 

As much as I had tried to kick out my guests, I was starting to enjoy their company.

I liked the way I was treated as a person and not a night’s activity.

I liked the way the way his arm felt supporting my waist and his touch through my hair.

I liked the way we smiled when we kissed. 

Eventually, I unlocked the door and cracked it open. 

But my unsuspected houseguests were not there to stay. 

They politely bid adieu, and even rebuilt those walls that guarded me, making them stronger than before. 

They didn't take anything, so physics won’t explain why, but my comfortable home was emptier after they left than it had been before they arrived.

Houseguests

The two domestic lizards I thought had died in the winter
are back, and I leave them alone as they live on insects and
avoid my food; but why are they not breeding?
Could it be they are of the same *** and may God, forbid gay?
Not that I care as long as they do not make love on
the kitchen table or behind the potted plant I hate but my wife
Is proud of. This made me think of small isolated villages in
Portugal where young men had little choice but to marry
a relative, naturally there many idiots at those places.
Israel which pursues a race clean stat might come regret this policy of purity, it is already showing when their soldiers
shoot small children and think it is funny, a clear mark of advanced madness.
So gay or not I gladly share my house with two domestic lizards.

Ever played rose, bud and thorn? It’s a game where you go around in a group of friends and share what’s happening in your life. A rose is something good, a bud is something hoped for, and a thorn is a problem. Yeah, we’re hopeless oversharers.

My rose today is the weather. I wrote a piece a week ago complaining about the lack of snow in New Haven. The next morning it was 2° with a wind chill of -30°. My roommates gave me the evil eye - like I somehow brought it on. “God doesn’t listen to me.” I ‘d said, defensively.

My thorn is, Anna’s parents are here for a few days and she’s very on edge. She spent yesterday with them but today they’re coming to our suite. I was surprised when I first saw them, they’re straight off the farm (if the farm was in the 1800s). They seemed to huddle together, defensively and consulted each other so quietly that they buzzed like a hive of bees.

Her father, a very tall man, was wearing a plaid flannel shirt under a long, thick, dark gray, Dickies coat (it says Dickies on the pocket) and jeans. He has a medium-long white beard and a black-felt, wideawake hat which he worked slowly in a circle by its brim (I think that would qualify as a comforting gesture).

Her mom, Abeba, the spokesperson for the pair, is a thin woman with mostly gray (used to be brown) hair. She was dressed simply in black high-top shoes, a plain, deep green, floor length dress under a sweater and long, thick, gansey shawl with matching barrette.

When I reached out to take her hand in greeting, she regarded me with a coolness I found unnerving. All the other parents I’ve ever met were friendly, even huggy, on introduction.
“They’re Quakers,” Anna said, (note the “they’re”) like that explained everything. When I looked confused, she reached out her hand, at arm's length, and touched me lightly on the upper arm with her index finger. After a moment she revealed, “That’s a Quaker hug.”

Anna had said they were quiet, “judgy” people - and here they were, in our common room, judging the books on our shelves (With titles like, “this book is gay,” “Good girl complex,” “The big **** *** book”) the clothes on the furniture, the laptops on the floor, the “art” on the walls and the disarray in the kitchen. They kept hat and purse in hand, as if they were expecting a fire drill. They’re a whole new category of houseguests.

At one point, Peter came out of my room, dressed in shorts and t-shirt but drying his hair. Sometimes he showers in my bathroom after working out. He smiled warmly at Anna’s parents and said, “Hi, Peter,” offering his hand to Anna’s father, Milhous (Peter can be very charming when he wants to be). Milhous stood up awkwardly and shook his hand, “Good day,” he said solemnly.  

Anna’s mom however, seeing Peter come out of my room, blushed from top to bottom and gave me a look that was worse than any spoken disapproval. The top of my head seemed to grow warm, but a glance at Anna revealed that she was embarrassed to her core, and my blooming irritation faded.

Imagine living under these passionless despots your whole life? I gave her a smile and moved on emotionally. Her parent's disapproval was so banal it was almost laughable.

Anna’s so happy, hilarious, bold and brilliant - the fact that these dour, sour, saturnine, in-the-margin sodbusters produced her - seems random - one of the wonders of the universe.

Those disembodied remnants,
Earthly remains of unknown souls,
are now assembled at my doorstep.
Having piqued my attention,
who are these unwelcome houseguests?
Loved ones or Nordic heroes
who were consumed in funeral pyres?
How old are these molecules
that have been forever scattered
during these past centuries?
Unwanted leftovers of human containers,
eaten by microscopic mites,
nibble at my presence
and wait for my spirit to dry up.
The dust calls for my fated demise;
However, my particles won’t be intermingled.
My segregated ashes have earned me my own space
in the cemetery’s manicured ground.
Thus, no one has to clean up after me.




Author Note:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2009, All rights reserved.

Humanity came to mind
tho quickly vanished into some
summer glory
The burden stilled,
Half-talking yet half-asleep
tried to persuade me
I, being somewhat lucid
curled up in the corner
where I practiced a rude grace
not even a bribing god could intervene
I remembered that the company
within my house had finished,
enjoying too long a visit while
I peered through the window
looking for wild beasts
and a few comparisons,
actions codified,
there I saw that a single dandelion
was watching me from the pasture
across the way
and understood my situation
resentful angels are legion
and shake off their love like sweat
whereas all that was wrung from my heart
could not quite fill a cup,
to spill