Him

You are the only thing that makes me feel.

Him

When I'm all alone, I think of him
I press his cheeks to mine
I hear the pitter-patter of his feet upon my floor as I lie in bed
I know his middle name and roll it off my tongue in aggravation at empty toilet rolls
I see his dirty socks in the hamper
I feel his chest near mine
I notice his smell sitting alone in traffic
I know his music collection
I know his DVD collection
I know his hopes
His dreams
But I do not have his heart.

The Individual

They sniffed him out as would hound like white blood cells looking for a virus in the blood stream. Millions surrounding him, the outsider, the excluded, the strange man, the different. Just because his social behaviors didn't match theirs. An organism of uniformity will dash away the rare, unincorporated, anomalous, the dauntingly individual. But he is an individual with not only the ability of nonconformity—but the very needed innovation. 

Whats Bothering Me

STOMACH

I'm totally not kidding.

Record

My heart is a record grooved over with time and tragedy. Edged just right for the record player to play the song of my demonized past. At times, I run my finger down the galvanized surface of a note, a ballad, a lyric. I run my finger into a stanza for a quick sympathetic nod. I take an entire chorus to have a mans ear for the day. But all in in all, I can't speak for the motions that took part in creating the rhythmically choreographed uniqueness it took (an unbreakable train, it's cabooses made up of years of malicious abuse) the day in and day out of worry over the lines that would have to be carved to allow it for me to look into your eyes the way I do now.

Rain

My life is a rain drop cushioning down upon all other rain drops. Falling from the sky, cascading into one big pin top of precipitation. I fall from great heights to rest on the shoulder of a pigeon, a tired old bench seat, someone's palm, an eroded wooden staircase, a blade of grass, a fire hydrant or the follicle of a hair. The rain that I am is a molecule smaller than a centimeter that builds with collision until it's time to makes is miniscule presence known to the world through quiet breaths of soundless liquified epiphanies in a form, warm or chilled few even notice.

Flowers

The flowers kept coming for exactly fifty days until the middle of a miserable night she came dripping on his door step, and a few unlayerings later into his home, their lips pressed together. She did not know whether to stay or to go in the morning but he knew he woke up without her. And as she watched swift light poles pass by in the crisp morning bus commute she had wondered what she had really done. She wanted to go back a thousand times but had he figured her out?

Oh Where Have you Been

Oh beloved where have you gone?
I am getting older
And I don’t know where you have gone
Take my hand if you can show me
I’m standing here at your heart's ache
I’ve loved you all along
You know my name but dare not speak it to your lips
And at the end of the woods
And at the end of your stare
You will find me
Just where I have always been
In your crying arms
Near your crying eyes
So that you might know where I have been, oh beloved

Statue

I would make an excellent statue. Something dogs can pee on and kids can kick.

Rubies

Don’t you start to wonder?
Don’t you start to see?
Under all these layers
Someone has to be me
Diamonds, rubies, treasures
They come from far off lands
But nothing seems to heal me
I see that slide of hand
And don’t you try to comfort
When all you do is mock
You must have know all along,
I did not come to talk

Him

There is no way I am going to give up on this belief I hold inside my frozen chest, cold as lake water, that he will return to me. He languishes on my heart and mind as an avid art collector of my past, as an echoing exhibitor inside a dismal spirit. If I were to loose him, all conciseness would be lost to a demise of my hope. I love him as life and I cannot learn any other way of breathing except through the delicate tissue of these lungs—neither can I learn to love except through these erratic thoughts of him.

Infamy

I do not understand how to live in a world where a day can live in infamy--but only within my heart and mind, not your cold, clenched chest nor mind.

Moving

    The music drowns to the whisper of her voice

        I see the room by the light in her eyes

    Easily swaying to the speed of her lingering perfume

        Eyes skip, stare and slide over the two of us

    As moonlight would flicker off the rippling tide at midnight

        Closer to the rhythm towards the end of the song

    Our shoes touch simultaneously with a shared smile

        Trailing laughter collects in the air

   Swishing, spilling wine, swirling hips, tilted head, half closed eyes,

    She knows tonight she can stand the world falling apart all but for the dance floor and his eyes.

Walking

He's nowhere in mind
When he isn't quite here
He does not face the day
Just a child in fear
He stays outside all night
But does not knock on that door
He's inside and out
and right where he was before
He wakes up in the morning
With pain in his heart
But the routine is too strong
To be torn apart
He knows what he should do
He knows what he should be
But the risk is too much
And the pain too deep
He continues on his way
Like it's a thousand days to come
but he is nowhere assured
Tomorrow will not come undone

Escalator

Stepping on tomorrow
That can't be here anyways
His eyes peer out the window
Avoiding her pain
He watches cigarette butts twirl
In the escalator
Waiting for that moment he promised her would come
At that now that is going to be later
How can he fight when
It's here anyways
Better to pack it in
Than try
As she turns away
He can't take today
Or that tomorrow that was today
He'll promise her no more
When she's staring at fresh roses in her favorite vase

Movies

You know those moments in movies where nothing is happening, you're just hearing the rustling of  feet, the bed covers, the wrapping paper of food? Those moments when nothing at all is happening but the invisible thoughts inside the actors head as he ties his shoes, walks down a side street, closes a door, whistles to himself? That's how I feel inside all the time now. Empty but heard. Alive and heard but empty and void of content. Seen but not touched, looked upon and pondered but not felt or caressed. Vital to the scene at hand but not seen for anything other than background noise.

Rocks

my heart and mind are set stones
my soul, a river runs over
with the leagues of hate
Running it's course
over the rocky bottom
to mix up the blood mesh
that breathes out a human being
that wakes up everyday
with thoughts in it's head
to eat up all that is right
and returns fitfully unsatisfied into
it's digested feelings of worth
To feed again.

Pages

I've pages in my heart that reveal nothing but you
I wish there was something more appropriate to put in those places
Something more mature
Something more becoming
Something more...
And I pour over them night and day
I've read them more than once or twice
I've more than memorized them
And tucked them into a quiet pocket hoping no one will ask of the words written there
But I've buried them
Where dew festers and sleeps with rain
A place for centipedes and bean sprouts
So, even when you're gone
And so are those pages
They'll remain crinkled in my heart
Their age obvious
Each word carved carefully with sincerity
But in the end
They will be thrown aside
And remembered for just that
Words on a page

Dance Without You (great song)

Date Night

I don't know what was more disturbing. The fact that he hacked his date to pieces at one of the most prestigious 'date night' restaurants in town. Or that he lugged her in a duffel bag all throughout public transport without so much as being noticed.

Sea

The love of another is as though the sea crashing down upon the farthest rock on the shore. Spraying it occasionally and lightly. Letting it corrode under your salty touch. Mimicking endearments of those intrusted to touch it's core. Letting go gently the jealously of the birds allowed to lap up your touch. Making it too late and too early each time to admire it's own daunting feel of you. Knowing nothing of it's goings or comings seeing only what is to be seen between two short bursts of an everlasting pure joy and acquiesce. And yet coming back again and again to his shores, no matter how briefly, to swim in it's shadow, to bath in it's edges to take glee in it's existence and return to a full embodiment of disappointment in your desolate sea.

 

Love of a Lifetime

When sunlight hits her moonstruck eyes
My escape slips inside
I hide, I play
I fantasize
We mate like a butterfly's wings symmetry
Oh! How we collide!
She echoes a thousand epiphanies
We lay ourselves down amongst
Our broken dreams
I spend myself here
A peak,
A pier,
I look over the lip
As our two silhouettes shrivel and split.

Malareaux

"Fifty cents on Malareaux,"
the man said in defiance.
"For that is all she is worth"
the clerk looked on in despair,
thinking of a second job,
showing some legs,
flowering up her cheeks,
tossing seductive looks,
to pay for a small flat,
and for the children
he left behind.
She looked him straight in the face and said,
" Malareaux will win tonight,
take you by surprise,
For there is gold and luster in that stead,
if you'd bother looking her in the eye!"

Rythmn

Everything has a rhythm. A facet drips. Done properly, ores move a boat forward. Two pieces of metal bounce off each other in synchronized concussions of sound. Things that are stationary and inanimate mimic the quality and requirement of our lives but do not in any essence explain to us their mastery and beauty of their rhythm. We are left to our own fumbling deviant devices in the time and space of our lives. With our actions choreographed, defined and foretasted by our past and futures.
We are living breathing creates with opposable thumbs and a much better means of communication, but a pine cone seems to do a better job of living, thriving and dying...