Graveyards on the Road
I drive a street pot-hole paved the lightest grey;
tired eyes coupled with the pitch stained tracks of a younger man
guide me back, the press of tires into the rough, grained
surface of days long past that never lasted
and never last.
It’s funny how soft skin can feel to fingertips
so used to cigarette burns, see-saw doorknobs, a nibbling mind,
and everything but feeling.
It’s funny how often I find my hands so close
to my face, posing the question, ‘Are you real?’
then allowing my questions to leave me behind -
as much unanswered as they are unanswerable,
tires skidmarking on 'initial here' spaces before we let off the breaks -
as coffee burns the tip of my tongue and, at least for the moment,
I can forget there is a world around me and that I chose this,
a street where I’m gridlocked and stagnant.
Though I’m older now, the roads stay the same,
(in a relative sort of way)
freshly lined with glittering new cars – wrecks
– yet I often find myself jadedly mesmerized,
unable to look away, captivated; desperately
adjusting mirrors to continue viewing the gaping jaws of life
casually close to bite into another body of work,
and I wonder why we work anymore
(or, even, at all).
‘We do not.’
I realize at a yellow light [red eye] st-st-stutter, stop.
We stopped working. The tickings of an engine,
we overheated, we stopped.
Your tongue tastes of postage, and I begin to wonder
if you too are writing letters with another:
signing a new name.
The nearly negligible trace of faded ink nestled in the
bottom corner of the ‘lifeline’ vein in your palm, an answer
to a silent prayer I never actually wanted a response to.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” I ask, “When you receive all the right answers
to all the wrong questions.”
– You have a beautiful way
of putting one foot in front of the other –
“What is the question?” you ask, with
almost a slip of geniality before noticing,
“That is the question.”
The Dying Season
There is so much pressure to just keep breathing
but this world is too beautiful: I’ll hold my breath,
I’ll hold my breath in your hand.
Planting seeds in tiled dirt, I tuck them carefully
beneath lukewarm, death laden, and nightmare free soils,
check the closet for UV night lights, patricides and pesticides:
celebrate these graves that we stand upon:
In a world of breeding pairs, you have to have desire-
Staring into a mirror at the intricacies in my eyes,
hoping to find untuned skies in these
iris rimmed plots reminiscing about days
I was felled by the stride of an angel...
but the wings were just an artistic licensing –
a vision we could never afford.
Surrealism is a common complaint amongst
crowds clamoring for the “I could have done that!”s
and the “I don’t get it.”s.
A criminal needs a heaven tonight,
but I’ve got nothing to give, and no matter how
very hard I try, I can’t forget
until my mind dies.
This morning I came to the realization that
I’ve lost count of the number of collisions – head on
– and that detours are just another notice on a broken window,
blinds and all, shuddering in the wake of a ‘Warning!’
‘Do Not Enter’
wrapped around my throat.
I’ve lost count of talking head decisions; gone
is the alternate way of living, gluten free with a mouth full of gravel
– mumbling something about the end
is nearest right before the break of dawn, but then
it breaks – and it dawns on me that this is only the beginning,
but it was also the end.
The Pain of Being Pure at Heart
I am shipwrecked among you,
black eyeing a chipped spy-glass bottle
that I have not yet accepted as empty;
‘Indeed, I know I am.’
A brook of babel flowing forth from out my soul,
cascading over shards of glass,
broken bottles dancing with my feet –
always being stepped on
– a jig, a jaunty, a jive, a jacket straight:
aces high and deuces wild.
I will never lose more than I lost the night
that I had nothing to lose;
I learned that nothing is no one’s to lose.
I am not a lucky man. I’m neither a joker, nor the joke.
It was considerably more difficult than I thought it would be
to plan my own burial. Shovel dirt over my name.
Shovel dirt over my bed.
Some people are wise, they spend their whole lives
digging for themselves a hole to lie in,
but me, I am too far behind; I am the grave-digger
mugged by an angel fallen of a cherub that was never mine.
I am the grave-digger
who was struck blind.
I died in the meeting of an eye for an eye,
because you were too beautiful,
and I was a lie.