(no subject)
Overwhelmed for an instant
your stomach turns - over folds itself
under like a roll of
Some fat horror.
That terrible thrill of having remembered
Suddenly that you have forgotten
Something
That moment of
Remembering that,
Is the way I feel when I see you.
*
When I think of you, in even the absence of
You, when the feel of our conversations, or a message
From you dies away
To a drawn out space, no guarantee of any…
thing on the other end.
*
When that happens,
the way I feel is a little more
Like a slowing of time; that this minute
and the next
Go on.
As though we, whose lips have not met today
were already a memory.
*
I can’t talk to you, in the dark of your day
You are embedded in the pitch of sleep
while I take my lunch break,
And I finger my phone thinking to send you a
Message, to send it into darkness
My hand would strike the glass of
An out of office response and the shame
of knowing my trace
my stroking tips
in the frozen cast of a missed
call notification
What I write, thrown into emptiness is caught by the merciless net of
The invisibly mechanized.
The fly-scrawls of the web,
in its ineradicable formless scriptures
Or the reach-out-touch-base-insincerity of the automatic
So we can’t elide the means and medium
and the pain of moderation
We talk through windows and through tubes of space
While the world is slipped from beat to beat,
Time travels, in automatic signatures,
Beaten back, like waves returning
wary.
mark when and where and what was sent
Like dogs on telegraph poles.
your stomach turns - over folds itself
under like a roll of
Some fat horror.
That terrible thrill of having remembered
Suddenly that you have forgotten
Something
That moment of
Remembering that,
Is the way I feel when I see you.
*
When I think of you, in even the absence of
You, when the feel of our conversations, or a message
From you dies away
To a drawn out space, no guarantee of any…
thing on the other end.
*
When that happens,
the way I feel is a little more
Like a slowing of time; that this minute
and the next
Go on.
As though we, whose lips have not met today
were already a memory.
*
I can’t talk to you, in the dark of your day
You are embedded in the pitch of sleep
while I take my lunch break,
And I finger my phone thinking to send you a
Message, to send it into darkness
My hand would strike the glass of
An out of office response and the shame
of knowing my trace
my stroking tips
in the frozen cast of a missed
call notification
What I write, thrown into emptiness is caught by the merciless net of
The invisibly mechanized.
The fly-scrawls of the web,
in its ineradicable formless scriptures
Or the reach-out-touch-base-insincerity of the automatic
So we can’t elide the means and medium
and the pain of moderation
We talk through windows and through tubes of space
While the world is slipped from beat to beat,
Time travels, in automatic signatures,
Beaten back, like waves returning
wary.
mark when and where and what was sent
Like dogs on telegraph poles.