(no subject)
you comb your cobweb hair
and, unhappy with the results,
comb it again. you want a lion
mane, but settle for unsure stalks
of grass, ready to collapse at the will
of a drop of water, or a condescending
pat from a girl friend. good boy.
i was there when you uncorked
your bottles of wine, lit a match,
and gave libations to a flimsy fire.
it smelled of dying grapes, of dying
years, and when i peered at your busy
hands, the veins looked like rotting vines.
fill in my gaps of french, je blank
le monde: "i will save the world,
for it is only a marble that i can pocket."
or are you too old too remember,
you gasp cobwebs, belch out sand,
and complain about a chronic headache
that occurs only on saturdays and sundays.
your defense: with all the shrieking
of floorboards in my apartment, how
am i to sleep? it is quiet here and i
only hear echoes as if my ear were
always held to the corpse of a wine
bottle. you need half a dozen pillows
erected beneath your head to even
consider falling asleep. and what
if my teaspoon cracks or shatters
in my morning cup? who will pick
out the shards with their teeth?
you scream each morning, as if
you stood on a summit peak,
stranded, needing help to get back
home. you are alone, and worse,
your realize it with your tyrannical
reign over each newspaper. no arguments
about crosswords or art: all to you.
true, we spat in the face of art
when given a chance to become
one of those: artists. and we hold
by our statements. but now we
make art in gaits and crooked eyes,
in writing a legal brief, in tending
to a girls needs. there is art in keystrokes
and in the way your sheets fold.
there is art in the way we fall apart,
watching others dissolve, piece of
sand by piece of sand, matter by matter,
while we stand at the shores of their lives
and watch, watch, watch, but as voyeurs.
and, unhappy with the results,
comb it again. you want a lion
mane, but settle for unsure stalks
of grass, ready to collapse at the will
of a drop of water, or a condescending
pat from a girl friend. good boy.
i was there when you uncorked
your bottles of wine, lit a match,
and gave libations to a flimsy fire.
it smelled of dying grapes, of dying
years, and when i peered at your busy
hands, the veins looked like rotting vines.
fill in my gaps of french, je blank
le monde: "i will save the world,
for it is only a marble that i can pocket."
or are you too old too remember,
you gasp cobwebs, belch out sand,
and complain about a chronic headache
that occurs only on saturdays and sundays.
your defense: with all the shrieking
of floorboards in my apartment, how
am i to sleep? it is quiet here and i
only hear echoes as if my ear were
always held to the corpse of a wine
bottle. you need half a dozen pillows
erected beneath your head to even
consider falling asleep. and what
if my teaspoon cracks or shatters
in my morning cup? who will pick
out the shards with their teeth?
you scream each morning, as if
you stood on a summit peak,
stranded, needing help to get back
home. you are alone, and worse,
your realize it with your tyrannical
reign over each newspaper. no arguments
about crosswords or art: all to you.
true, we spat in the face of art
when given a chance to become
one of those: artists. and we hold
by our statements. but now we
make art in gaits and crooked eyes,
in writing a legal brief, in tending
to a girls needs. there is art in keystrokes
and in the way your sheets fold.
there is art in the way we fall apart,
watching others dissolve, piece of
sand by piece of sand, matter by matter,
while we stand at the shores of their lives
and watch, watch, watch, but as voyeurs.