here we go again?
The point of posting these was for people to comment. I won't kill myself if it's constructive criticism, I promise. :)
3.141592653
control is
how
one manages
to
keep one’s head when the
uncontrollable conquers reason:
when i
crawl towards you with a smile,
with an agenda,
when you run.
Couple’s Counseling
He and I are both medicated now,
Finally.
I guess it was a long time coming.
It’s a little like modernized couples therapy,
Packaged in neat little bottles,
In neat little bags,
His pink, mine green.
The colors worry me a little.
They’re too bright.
On the bright side,
We’re very quiet, docile as cats,
And we never, ever fight.
It’s years since I haven’t seen red.
beginnings
Look at what you’ve done!
She says, furious.
Her eyes bore into yours and
You have that
Sinking
feeling when the magnitude
Of a situation finally hits
hard.
It’s a curious lie that comes forth now,
Her repentance, your salvation.
It’s a complicated mosaic,
Baring an absence of soul
And straining at heart-strings that
Threaten to
Break.
Look at what you’ve done!
She says, furious.
Her eyes bore into yours and
You could swear you saw her
Wink.
endings
I read once, my darling,
That all great stories are
About sex
Or death.
I don’t remember where I read this.
It can’t have been in one of the books you leave
Carelessly lying around everywhere
Without regard for the fact that I keep
Tripping on them.
It certainly wasn’t spelled out in the
Browned apple-core that’s been on the nightstand
Since Wednesday.
It isn’t coded in that annoying way
You brush your teeth,
The loud cow-sounds of your chewing,
Or the tea you make me,
(always too cold.)
You know, my darling,
They say that all great stories are
About sex
Or death.
But who’s to say that
Ours can’t end in both?
recipe
in a large deep bowl,
mix briskly:
a dash of hip,
a fencepost mouth glistening white
cream-soft skin, sweet-smelling,
then set aside.
in another, smaller bowl,
add a slip of lipstick, lickety-split.
the latter, preferably red,
though substitution is possible
(pink, but never nothing.)
next, cake on the face,
eyelashes to taste, and shadow.
(blue, green, red will all do.)
be sure to whip well,
keep the mixture thinnest in the middle.
throw in a dash of desperation,
a touch of raw sex (this will boil away,
leaving only the taste.)
and a child or two.
stir in some heels, three inch minimum,
a liberal pat of pantsuit,
a briefcase and purse (leather, preferably)
bake for as long as it takes and
serve cold.
the stuff of stories
Would it be best to perish fast,
A blaze of flame and glory, then black?
Or is it best to live and last
Under icy-cold impressions?
Would you say that it’s justly performed, other half?
These rites, this religion, this heat?
Do I kneel at your altar, my lips on your hems,
Am I cooking and cleaning, mistaken again?
Do you, kind-cool god, prefer fire or ice?
Prefer to go now, or be absent in time?
Does it worry you now, on your throne in the ground,
That your puppet is on the way down?
Would I conquer your heaven, your personal hells?
Will you cede your place gladly, or fight?
I’ll arrive as an army, and then I’ll hear tell
Of a requiem mass as I bury your shell.
how we are
you pushed, I pulled;
(it’s strange how we stick together
without fitting together,
so easily pulled apart.)
the wine glasses on the table
shake a bit.
in my mind, they
drop and shatter,
spreading purple on the parquet.
you only pushed verbally, thank goodness.
you’re far bigger than me, and stronger,
you could probably push me to the ground,
and you certainly wouldn’t pull me up again.
when we finish, finally, I’m drained,
my eyes are droopy, I’ve just jumped a hundred hurdles.
I concede and go to bed.
you follow.
white
My seventeen paperbacks,
All covered with dust,
The pills on your nightstand,
Your cloudy glass of water.
My glasses scratched, folded into themselves
On the scratched wood surface.
A white remote control,
A pen and a cheap cardboard postcard
That bleeds “wish you were here”
blue
hurt slipping from his mouth
comfort silver-softly
to my ears, from his
(black eyes on the red eye back)
hand to my lips, cheeks, arms
home.
it hurts, it’s a crack, a slap, a kick like a
tax kick back, the pits.
it scars but at the end of the day
you’re a little more scared,
a little bit scarred
and a whole day older (that’s all, that’s it.)
on stage, things are different
slap, crash
shatter, clip…
there’s red on the black and white tiles,
and I’m not sure where it came from.
well, okay.
I know.
but I’ll lie,
it’s far easier, it has that same
satisfying sound as flesh on flesh
and plus,
I know I’ll do it again,
I always do it again.
so don’t worry, dearest,
I’m here for the night.
on stage, things are always the same
our love is painted baffles, screws toenailed into
the hard stage floor,
removed into my hands, burning,
screwed back in at a different angle
wood puttied, painted, concealed in blue light.
our love is kisses over duct tape,
plastic packing tape,
insulating tape that keeps you quiet
while I cue murmurs, rustles in the night,
the whoosh of a train on metal tracks.
it’s clear, it’s water dyed orange and green,
it makes far too much sense,
and I’m scared.
losing
you never opened up
never wanted to accept
that what they were
saying was true.
you didn’t go off
like all the others,
were never one to
follow orders.
you were the cold-eyed
objector, always asking
never expecting
an answer.
when you finally got one
you left; became a
statistic, another internally
warring faction
(you idiot)
well done.
winning
darling-
there’s a roast in the oven,
your mail on the table,
the spare key in the usual place,
and fresh sheets on our bed for your mistress.
i’m back on tuesday, not that you care.
dearest-
there’s a suitcase in the hallway,
an empty half-closet,
the tape back where i found it,
and your crumpled face in my hand.
i’m leaving you, not that you’ll notice.
satisfaction
If you could wish for one thing,
You’d wish for nothing at all.
You’d hem and haw, decide against,
Stay on the fence as hot snow pounds
Across your glasses, obscuring the view from outside
If I could wish for one thing,
I’d wish for everything I could think of,
Then decide what to keep once I had it
Safely in my grasp, a lioness with a cub’s neck
Between her teeth.
When we wish for a thing together,
When we pool our infinite knowledge,
Our indestructible calm and our devil may care smiles,
We wish for satisfaction, for bleakness in shades of beige,
For wall hangings eternally straight,
For copper cookware and the ghost of satisfaction
minor keys
You have always loved to compose,
To create, to conjure.
To make something from nothing
And nothing from something.
To write about blue when inside,
One is red,
To continue to smile when inside
One is dead.
To rhyme
I have always loved to teach,
I have always wanted to help
One
Discover that life is not
Creation, conjuration and
Composition.
But simply
Ten thousand requiems
And a love song
a requiem mass in hate major
We’re more a collision in the dark,
Less a moonlit rendezvous.
We are not each other’s type.
You click, I clack.
Where I shatter, you recombinate
Like some crazy vaccine
That my body rejects.
I am rubber, you are acid,
Or crazy glue.
Something nasty that holds on for dear life.
You’re dying, I’m watching.
We is turning into me
I’m waiting on the edge
Of my waiting room throne
While whatever is eating you
Takes another bite.
The clean up,
At least,
Is a challenge I can handle.
revisions
Dearly beloved,
We are gathered here today
To witness a crapshoot,
Russian roulette with a loaded gun,
Phases of mitosis set in glass.
Will you take this individual,
And create Mrs You from the clay of Ms Me?
Do you vow to share vengeances,
Hit lists,
The mechanics of hatred, of
Being okay?
Do you solemnly swear to draw blood
Only on special occasions,
To smile in public?
I do
(n’t).
variations
there is, of course,
a positive to every negative,
a connection to your disconnect,
tape on the frayed cable,
if you will.
what’s mine is mine,
yours is yours,
and i twirl around the hills of boxes
you have yet to pick up,
relishing what will soon be empty space
bless you, my darling,
my absent darling, my dear departed darling,
for you’ve given me space to dance.
supplications
when a man awakens,
suicidal,
on a bright spring morning,
a few things happen-
birds sing outside.
the lip of a water glass,
chipped, skates over a chapped mouth.
one eye opens, calm and collected.
the other opens, full of panic.
teeth are brushed while avoiding the mirror.
women try more, certainly, but men tend to succeed.
your empty space in the bed is a soft, laughing mouth.
full circle
the day that you left,
I drank myself to sleep.
if you had been there,
it would have tasted better.
but I still would have done it.
I promise.
3.141592653
control is
how
one manages
to
keep one’s head when the
uncontrollable conquers reason:
when i
crawl towards you with a smile,
with an agenda,
when you run.
Couple’s Counseling
He and I are both medicated now,
Finally.
I guess it was a long time coming.
It’s a little like modernized couples therapy,
Packaged in neat little bottles,
In neat little bags,
His pink, mine green.
The colors worry me a little.
They’re too bright.
On the bright side,
We’re very quiet, docile as cats,
And we never, ever fight.
It’s years since I haven’t seen red.
beginnings
Look at what you’ve done!
She says, furious.
Her eyes bore into yours and
You have that
Sinking
feeling when the magnitude
Of a situation finally hits
hard.
It’s a curious lie that comes forth now,
Her repentance, your salvation.
It’s a complicated mosaic,
Baring an absence of soul
And straining at heart-strings that
Threaten to
Break.
Look at what you’ve done!
She says, furious.
Her eyes bore into yours and
You could swear you saw her
Wink.
endings
I read once, my darling,
That all great stories are
About sex
Or death.
I don’t remember where I read this.
It can’t have been in one of the books you leave
Carelessly lying around everywhere
Without regard for the fact that I keep
Tripping on them.
It certainly wasn’t spelled out in the
Browned apple-core that’s been on the nightstand
Since Wednesday.
It isn’t coded in that annoying way
You brush your teeth,
The loud cow-sounds of your chewing,
Or the tea you make me,
(always too cold.)
You know, my darling,
They say that all great stories are
About sex
Or death.
But who’s to say that
Ours can’t end in both?
recipe
in a large deep bowl,
mix briskly:
a dash of hip,
a fencepost mouth glistening white
cream-soft skin, sweet-smelling,
then set aside.
in another, smaller bowl,
add a slip of lipstick, lickety-split.
the latter, preferably red,
though substitution is possible
(pink, but never nothing.)
next, cake on the face,
eyelashes to taste, and shadow.
(blue, green, red will all do.)
be sure to whip well,
keep the mixture thinnest in the middle.
throw in a dash of desperation,
a touch of raw sex (this will boil away,
leaving only the taste.)
and a child or two.
stir in some heels, three inch minimum,
a liberal pat of pantsuit,
a briefcase and purse (leather, preferably)
bake for as long as it takes and
serve cold.
the stuff of stories
Would it be best to perish fast,
A blaze of flame and glory, then black?
Or is it best to live and last
Under icy-cold impressions?
Would you say that it’s justly performed, other half?
These rites, this religion, this heat?
Do I kneel at your altar, my lips on your hems,
Am I cooking and cleaning, mistaken again?
Do you, kind-cool god, prefer fire or ice?
Prefer to go now, or be absent in time?
Does it worry you now, on your throne in the ground,
That your puppet is on the way down?
Would I conquer your heaven, your personal hells?
Will you cede your place gladly, or fight?
I’ll arrive as an army, and then I’ll hear tell
Of a requiem mass as I bury your shell.
how we are
you pushed, I pulled;
(it’s strange how we stick together
without fitting together,
so easily pulled apart.)
the wine glasses on the table
shake a bit.
in my mind, they
drop and shatter,
spreading purple on the parquet.
you only pushed verbally, thank goodness.
you’re far bigger than me, and stronger,
you could probably push me to the ground,
and you certainly wouldn’t pull me up again.
when we finish, finally, I’m drained,
my eyes are droopy, I’ve just jumped a hundred hurdles.
I concede and go to bed.
you follow.
white
My seventeen paperbacks,
All covered with dust,
The pills on your nightstand,
Your cloudy glass of water.
My glasses scratched, folded into themselves
On the scratched wood surface.
A white remote control,
A pen and a cheap cardboard postcard
That bleeds “wish you were here”
blue
hurt slipping from his mouth
comfort silver-softly
to my ears, from his
(black eyes on the red eye back)
hand to my lips, cheeks, arms
home.
it hurts, it’s a crack, a slap, a kick like a
tax kick back, the pits.
it scars but at the end of the day
you’re a little more scared,
a little bit scarred
and a whole day older (that’s all, that’s it.)
on stage, things are different
slap, crash
shatter, clip…
there’s red on the black and white tiles,
and I’m not sure where it came from.
well, okay.
I know.
but I’ll lie,
it’s far easier, it has that same
satisfying sound as flesh on flesh
and plus,
I know I’ll do it again,
I always do it again.
so don’t worry, dearest,
I’m here for the night.
on stage, things are always the same
our love is painted baffles, screws toenailed into
the hard stage floor,
removed into my hands, burning,
screwed back in at a different angle
wood puttied, painted, concealed in blue light.
our love is kisses over duct tape,
plastic packing tape,
insulating tape that keeps you quiet
while I cue murmurs, rustles in the night,
the whoosh of a train on metal tracks.
it’s clear, it’s water dyed orange and green,
it makes far too much sense,
and I’m scared.
losing
you never opened up
never wanted to accept
that what they were
saying was true.
you didn’t go off
like all the others,
were never one to
follow orders.
you were the cold-eyed
objector, always asking
never expecting
an answer.
when you finally got one
you left; became a
statistic, another internally
warring faction
(you idiot)
well done.
winning
darling-
there’s a roast in the oven,
your mail on the table,
the spare key in the usual place,
and fresh sheets on our bed for your mistress.
i’m back on tuesday, not that you care.
dearest-
there’s a suitcase in the hallway,
an empty half-closet,
the tape back where i found it,
and your crumpled face in my hand.
i’m leaving you, not that you’ll notice.
satisfaction
If you could wish for one thing,
You’d wish for nothing at all.
You’d hem and haw, decide against,
Stay on the fence as hot snow pounds
Across your glasses, obscuring the view from outside
If I could wish for one thing,
I’d wish for everything I could think of,
Then decide what to keep once I had it
Safely in my grasp, a lioness with a cub’s neck
Between her teeth.
When we wish for a thing together,
When we pool our infinite knowledge,
Our indestructible calm and our devil may care smiles,
We wish for satisfaction, for bleakness in shades of beige,
For wall hangings eternally straight,
For copper cookware and the ghost of satisfaction
minor keys
You have always loved to compose,
To create, to conjure.
To make something from nothing
And nothing from something.
To write about blue when inside,
One is red,
To continue to smile when inside
One is dead.
To rhyme
I have always loved to teach,
I have always wanted to help
One
Discover that life is not
Creation, conjuration and
Composition.
But simply
Ten thousand requiems
And a love song
a requiem mass in hate major
We’re more a collision in the dark,
Less a moonlit rendezvous.
We are not each other’s type.
You click, I clack.
Where I shatter, you recombinate
Like some crazy vaccine
That my body rejects.
I am rubber, you are acid,
Or crazy glue.
Something nasty that holds on for dear life.
You’re dying, I’m watching.
We is turning into me
I’m waiting on the edge
Of my waiting room throne
While whatever is eating you
Takes another bite.
The clean up,
At least,
Is a challenge I can handle.
revisions
Dearly beloved,
We are gathered here today
To witness a crapshoot,
Russian roulette with a loaded gun,
Phases of mitosis set in glass.
Will you take this individual,
And create Mrs You from the clay of Ms Me?
Do you vow to share vengeances,
Hit lists,
The mechanics of hatred, of
Being okay?
Do you solemnly swear to draw blood
Only on special occasions,
To smile in public?
I do
(n’t).
variations
there is, of course,
a positive to every negative,
a connection to your disconnect,
tape on the frayed cable,
if you will.
what’s mine is mine,
yours is yours,
and i twirl around the hills of boxes
you have yet to pick up,
relishing what will soon be empty space
bless you, my darling,
my absent darling, my dear departed darling,
for you’ve given me space to dance.
supplications
when a man awakens,
suicidal,
on a bright spring morning,
a few things happen-
birds sing outside.
the lip of a water glass,
chipped, skates over a chapped mouth.
one eye opens, calm and collected.
the other opens, full of panic.
teeth are brushed while avoiding the mirror.
women try more, certainly, but men tend to succeed.
your empty space in the bed is a soft, laughing mouth.
full circle
the day that you left,
I drank myself to sleep.
if you had been there,
it would have tasted better.
but I still would have done it.
I promise.