Elaborate a little on the empty space.
canvas
Fill it with spills.
It all seems so accidental, did you bring your credentials?
Passwords linger throughout the discussions,
reason & recognize
Act with the valor of lightning and they will stumble like thunder... Timber.
Down falls another point on the pop chart.
Playing tic tac toe till the the tacs tic down by the toe, action falls into a drifting memory and crumples at the custodial hour.
Feet pounding time on the tiles
Repititions, turning inches to miles... Progress??
Does the diety of a paragraph outshine the novel drifter??
I mean, both read only one line at a time...

I have tried to love you,
while you loved
another.

I’ve tried making
peace, with the fact
that I will always,
always fall second
in your heart.

We are not a cliche.
We are a vicious cycle.

We fall in a dance,
that we never speak of.

I wait for you at night.
You stumble in my arms,
drunk and desperate.

We sleep through
hurried whispers in
the darkness,
fleeting fingertips
shaking terribly over
white-hot heat of skin
touching against skin, slow-dancing
with silence in lieu of music,
the sharp angles of your
hipbones and the dip
where your collarbone
meets your sternum

– all these and more,
on my lips and the way
you tear through my flesh

– only to run out
my bed when the morning
comes, to run in his arms

And he’ll meet you at the door
smelling of fresh showers
and mint toothpaste,
and summery aftershave.

He’ll ask you where you’ve been
and you’ll conjure a lie or two
about how you’ve spent the night
and the day before with your sister
or how you’ve spent the night
on your friend’s couch…

…but I am not your friend,
and you certainly didn’t spend
the night on my couch.

And in the afternoon,
I’ll see you with him, his hands
on the small of your back,
exactly just as where my
hands had been, just hours ago.

The sun sets, the night falls
and I’ll wait for you
to run to me again.

And you always do.

We’re not a cliche
We’re poison meant to ****
each other, and we’re not
supposed to mesh at all.
We’re an incurable sickness
that we both know we cannot
live without.

We’re lies and lies and lies.
Topped off with lies again and again.

We are not
empty wineglasses
left on the floor
to pick up dust or
to shatter to pieces, but we are
more of an unfinished novel
dog-eared and thrown
a thousand times across the floor
both in frustration and in anger.

We both keep
picking it up and re-reading
over and over again
even though we already know
how
   this
      story
           ends.

And **** if it isn’t my favorite.

I (Reverie)

Thisbe senses diamonds in the dusk/
Turner protects himself with cozying ash created from the minerals of adoration

The street is a hundred constant cinders
Communicating with mystic language
Repeating itself

While the newsstation weeps
And front yards hold their damp cheeks
Cherishing the child who is now gone

The envisioned tower, embarassed with its Windows n lack of decorations/
Not even the cobwebs will settle in vicinity!

A paranoid Sculpter cant sleep and so takes to Spanish poetry

"You're giving out your tarot cards to
Yusuf what will he do with them!"

A mother says to her child who
Incidentally goes blind in that exact moment

An epitaph for the ashtray sitting precariously on the stainglass table on the porch where an
Empress seeks shelter
Carving at her senses with
Violent monologues about religion
Courtesy her friend

(A stranger to risk,
Some tired dull balloon rises up within her consciousness going higher and higher!)

II (December in Moods)

Mauve temporarily fills the room
Your soft breathing brings an elation
To the dresser at the foot of your bed
I can't rest here beside you
I want to kiss you
And your sleep

The discontent arrives
In shrouded form
You resign yourself to the kitchen watching logging trucks forever heave around the bend of forestry
Threatened with the possibility that they'll lose balance and collide with the house

I visit during Holidays with marigolds and fantasies of Asia
& with sweetness on verge
of imancipation
You kiss my face
attempting composure
As the radio promises
That this Winter will be especially
Frigid.

I apologize for my arrogance!
In losing friends, betraying my past beliefs for
White wine & phenomenology

You recite a foreign anthem with whispers, curious of the mathematics of romance.
Questioning yourself but especially yourself in relation to me.

III (Josephine, Burial)

In contemplation
A dog listens to nearby whistling
Of a young girl home from school/
In six months she'll fall victim to the divorce of her family/
And in twelve months
Accept that her mother had a lot of problems
It isn't her fault
It was never her fault/

In sixteen months she'll chip her front teeth on the coffee table

In three years she'll decide on a better first name
"Josephine"
In four she will legally change it and

In five the previously mentioned dog will be buried
With his owner's favorite scarf

IV (2015)

The August heat causing distant roads to waver in illusion while
A home catches fire

Luckily not my own

I save my mind one night before it loses itself to pure imaginative flow
In midsts of 108 repititions of the Gayatri Mantra
I remember that!
The portrait of a french woman robed in sunset colors is taken off the rotting walls of a Cabin, auburn with evening rain.

Silence!

V (The rosebush blushes while being painted)

Yggdrasil is being renovated a few blocks away & a garden is unable to answer
For its
Unusual poetics

The local raincoat impressionist observes
A fantasy hidden in the soil
Nurturing itself
With percieved
Infant curiosity

Our premeditations are spontaneous happenings
           Expressing itself in tense repititions.
                     naggingly, seemingly stuck in ruttage
             but really a strategy of suggestedness
         In a select position.
                     Spinning ideas collected for comfort
    A platter of minute individualistics
               Not so plain to see
                    But relevant anyway

Repetition

Shadows are repetitions

Echoes are repetitions

Memories are repetitions

Mirrors are repetitions

Stammers are repetitions

Recitals are repititions