The fortunate I,
The send-sighted me,
What might have I done
To deserve this to see?

That inchworm in paining,
Though pretty she was,
Has set to cocooning,
In endless becomes.

Such books, she has heavy,
Her heart so it spins,
That silken word cover,
With lux-journal skeins.

Such passion in weaving,
She'll fuel open minds,
And full will this artist,
Soon her medium find.

I do not know what it feels like to live in someone else’s dream.
Outside the house, the moon, like a mistress, slits its throat
and bleeds white. The nature of all things around me has its way
of heaving out the wrongness, as if a drunkard staggering for words,
floundering in a curt reply after being asked where’s the nearest station
towards nowhere. I remember in 4th grade, they asked me what I
wanted to do with my life. All I ever wanted was the same clichéd response,
without knowing the appropriate punishment the desire coming with it.
I am not culpable. I wanted to be a bird stirring in a plainsong: free.
Whatever that meant. In a room where cross-sections of you tender me
margins I cannot cross. When I was young, whenever my mother would
leave me for the marketplace, she told me to always lock the doors
and never let anybody inside. The sound of the gears resembled your hand
in mine when we held hands, securing each finger into place the way
the night tucked us to sleep. It is still something the unforgettable, with
its feigned urgency, its ersatz summer days indoors spent on nothing but
gibberish and luxuriously lounging at nothing, looking at blank spaces
as though they were naked women the first time and the last. In a place like
this that selfishly spires with thoughtless hum, it’s conversations with the smallest
details that cover such distance, revealing weight I cannot solder.
Freedom to me is as bizarre as any other feeling that pushes one person
over to the next one. I have its wobbling sense scattered all around like a crushed
scent of bougainvillea. What we have to give in exchange for it, and what we
are to acquire after trying to weave out denotations that would make us swill
over like muck over the city that we selfishly breathe in, and our almost
ridiculous misunderstanding of the word riddled with unsparing details.
  I had myself mull over it, passing your decrepit house. Freedom,
the wind, or a bird, or anything unloosened like a waning volume from a stereo,
a readying tip of fire awakened ready to catch the corners of your fingers,
a basket of fruits in the morning from a remote bazaar, the peeled off and pared skin
  of an orange, some November night that burnt auburn, anything that may take place
     anytime in our hands – something that does not break in it, but holds still, waiting
to take place, forming names, sliding away from fingers. Freedom, to have a shadow
engraved on an architrave and a cornice, and to have your name in my heart
  like a frieze ornamenting some entablature, or that long dream of striding past
the Metropolitan, knowing how erroneous it was to feel so immense at that cosmic moment
of sizable smallness: the perpetual dialogue between a host and a barfly,
  mellifluously woven striking in sense, a farce raiding meaning all afternoon, like the close
eye of the Sun inspecting furniture, or your nosy neighbor taking time to stop watering the
  plants and watch you dance from your window, to a music that he has no knowledge of,
               but I do. I do. If it wasn’t plainsong, then I was wrong, writhing and alive
still, leaning in the air of a dream – free, wandering,
                      *wind,   passing of figures, clenched fingers, nothing.

She was in an awful state,
Her folks had hurled words of hate.
When he came for her.

And there in her hand she held,
A sharpened bit of cold blue steel,
Honed ever so sharp to the feel.

Palatable,
Twas her pain.
He felt it too,
It was that real.

At once,
He knew that this time,
She not would not cut herself,
Just to feel.
And this time there was a,
**** good chance,
That these wounds,
Might never have the chance to heal.

He peered into,
Her tear stricken eyes.
And a plan it did arise.

With a lump in his throat,
And a trembling voice.
And as the tears streamed from his eyes.

He said,
You're planning to leave me,
I'm afraid I do surmise.
I realize that I can't stop you,
If you truly wish to go.
But,
One thing my dear.
One tiny little thing
For me,
PLEASE!
Before you leave to go,
Is that too much to ask,
From someone who loves you so.

May I please,
Please,
Hold onto to your sharpened bit,
Of cold blue steel?

Before my one true love,
From me it steals?

Three minutes.
Just three minutes please.

Let me hold it.
Please.
Just three short minutes.
I am begging you.
Please!

I do implore.
Give to me,
What's in your hand.
I promise to give it back once more.

I have never lied to you.
And,
I am not about to start it now.

I will do exactly as I say I will.
But ,
Please,
Please listen to me.
And give it to me now.

Three minutes,
Three tiny little minutes,
Of just you and me,
Before you leave to go.
Three minutes,
And you are free to go.

Could you please,
Give that piece of steel to me?

She unloosened her grasp,
And,
Into his outstretched hand,
It fell.
Her tiny bit,
Of cold blue steel.

Quickly,
He closed his fingers,
And,
At last,
The steel he,
Himself, did grasp.

Flip your timer dear.
Three minutes,
Three scant minutes,
That is our deadline.
That should be all it takes.
Sweet love of mine.


Now you should know before you go.
That I do indeed love you.

Well just how much,
Well that my dear.
You may never know.

Safely in his arms,
On his chest,
Her head did rest.

You do know,
That I love you the best.
Upon her head he placed a kiss.
And gently kissed,
The teardrops from her eyes.

As their eyes locked,
He said,
To me doll,
You're quite the prize.
As he wiped,
The teardrops from his eyes.

He then cast his eyes,
Upon the dwindling sand.
In the tiny hour glass.
Time is short my dear,
We haven't long I fear.

And yes,
Eternity,
It does draw near.

NOW!

Listen to me,
Hear me well.

You won't go alone,
You'll have me near.
That's how much,
I love you dear.


We will go together dear.
I'll hold your hand,
This will be,
Our very last stand.

He redirected his eyes,
And glanced upon the clepsydra
That depleted hour glass.
The timer was empty,
The sands had all ran out.

He then looked right back at her,
And said,
It's empty.
All the sands have ran out.
And honey,
This is what I am all about.

He unloosened his fingers,
And with an upturned palm.
He revealed to her once more,
Her, cold, blue steel.

This one thing,
I pray you've learned.
And your trust I have earned.

I did not lie to you,
And I never will.
And he held to her,
Her sharpened sliver,
Of cold, blue steel.

Where we go,
From here my dear,
Well you decide.

But,

We are going together dear.
That's for ME,
To decide.

We are going together dear!
Arm in arm,
And,
Side by side.

He closed his eyes,
And they both softly wept.

He felt her fingers,
Retaking her steel.
And imagined,
Just how it might feel.

The bite of,
Her cold, blue steel.

Then,
Like the tinkling of a bell,
Came a tiny metallic sound.
That itty-bitty sound.
Twas the sound of the razor,
As it struck the ground.
                                      
                                            by: coleman

"WELL, WELL. . !"

Under the night's
sodium lights

I watched my shadow's
shadow

trying to keep in step
with the flesh and blood me.

I unfastened time
:- all hooks and eyes -:

laughed as unloosened
it floundered in a drain

as my mind made
its escape

( not tied to this
body or to me

free to wander
amongst the falling rain

hide in the space
between sound and sound

become one thing
- one thing only -

becoming now
- all things -

But see the rain ceases
to talk to itself

and I hooked up time
:-  moment to moment  -:

so that it resumed
doing what it ought to.

The last train of thought
had already left.

A moon lay asleep
in a tiny puddle.

I stepped over it
careful not to disturb

its slumber

a busker played
AROUND MIDNIGHT

as if we were
in a movie.



"Well, well..!
I tell myself
"Well, well!"

"WELL, WELL. . !"

Under the night's
sodium lights

I watched my shadow's
shadow

trying to keep in step
with the flesh and blood me.

I unfastened time
:- all hooks and eyes -:

laughed as unloosened
it floundered in a drain

as my mind made
its escape

( not tied to this
body or to me

free to wander
amongst the falling rain

hide in the space
between sound and sound

become one thing
- one thing only -

becoming now
- all things -

But see the rain ceases
to talk to itself

and I hooked up time
:-  moment to moment  -:

so that it resumed
doing what it ought to.

The last train of thought
had already left.

A moon lay asleep
in a tiny puddle.

I stepped over it
careful not to disturb

its slumber

a busker played
AROUND MIDNIGHT

as if we were
in a movie.

"Well, well..!
I tell myself
"Well, well!"