One year ago today
The prize sailing deep
from one end of your earth
to the tips of your fingers
steaming slips of paper taking
the place of lamenting
and lines drawn on your hand
lavishing your pain licking.
The reality of your fortune
the misstep taken on the terrace
the baggage left at the trainstop
of dripping on the floor.
Your milky countenance is found
your unlocked closet door
displays in you
the wealthy looking in the mirror
unable to remove his poor.
Cogitation on Torn Paper
We sit at the diner,
two mirrors facing their reflection.
The tip of your chin sits perpendicular
to the words you dribble onto the counter.
I can see your feelings silk-screened onto your face,
funneling into your hands, in the way they fritter the napkin,
then the straw wrapper.
I can feel the little pieces,
blowing across my skin
scurrying onto my plate
from the draft in the door
I can feel our words fly similarly in the air,
swiftly navigating the tension of time
and drift across the surface of our solidarity.
After the diner, we say goodbye
and I wrap my arms around your bones
my frittered soul
coming back to me.
I watch the nod of your head,
tracing the sleepiness around your optic nerve
wiping my hands on my skin in obeisance
as your lids begin to close.
I recall the exactitude, the incunabula of your suffering
the quiver of your muscles
and the latent broadside of your misstep
the clerical error of your heart
hopscotching toward me
with little to no trepidation.
I should have shooed you away
fluttered though my feathers felt
I could claim this act as remuneration
and springboard you in a new direction
farther and further from me.
*using the following words of the day:
remunerative – affording to repay; profitable: remunerative work
incunabula-the earliest stages or first traces of anything.
Maybe I knew, growing up
that something was wrong with you.
That your way of hiding things in your pockets
was not the natural way of things
and that others laid them out on the carpet for all to see.
I always admired the way you smooth over
the way you stuffed words into holes in the road
to keep everyone’s cars from veering into the ditch.
I loved that you cared
as much as I hated your politeness, forcing
sweetly down the throats of my friends
and they drank the sugar water like they were parched.
It bled into me, this method,
only I found myself surrounded by carpet people,
those who had no pockets for secrets
and blatantly knocked down my world of non-honest
enveloping me in their consanguinity
plucking the pain from my wastebasket
and fitting it back into my roads of smooth.
The lies were too slippery to last anyway.
There you stand, watching
as we dip ourselves in the mud.
Our hair, plastered brown swimcaps
Our teeth, gleaming and whiter than toothpaste commercials.
Each crevice covered, each fingertip slops and goops
You never choose to step into the pit,
as you call it.
Your clothes are pristine, your slacks pressed
and cuffed above your shoes.
Your pocket square is bleached and ready
To dab at any flick of muck that makes it way to you.
Oh sure, you’ve been brought here before,
but your teeth never gleamed.
Your trepidation astounds us
the mud clears the pores
it scrubs away the stark purity of assumption
But you’ll never know that until you try.
Your mysophobia shone like a neon sign
As you screamed and clawed against us
Before we tossed you in headfirst.
Back into the ground
Back into the womb.
I watch them pull on the clove,
lips squeezing the black cylinder like a kiss
before inhaling the insides of each puff.
The slender stick elongating her fingers,
highlighting her bone-colored skin
rubbing the reddened tips with a subfuscous substance
Made lighter when he plucks it from her,
his hands twice the size, the motion practiced
like they had been sharing cigarettes for a century.
I remain in the corner,
studying the approximation the hood of her coat
makes to the jut of his ribs
now pressing and squeezing together, like their lips,
the clove crushed on the ground,
Longing for those words, that one phrase
sits fair Thessalonike, a tearful wail upon her lip
a salty sigh upon her breast.
Not one to be countered, she would live
for years on land, loving and championing
her brother, Alexander.
It was not until she became one with the thalassic mind
drowning herself despite her washed locks of life
magic in their immortality
that her true empowerment became known.
Is Alexander the king alive?
One phrase, one
only one could calm her seas
bring the besotted safe to harbor.
He lives and reigns and conquers the world.
Who could really believe there were no other interpretations
No life beyond the life of her love.
Bear it not, these words were tantamount
Or she would release the whiplashed storm
flailing sailors far and wide, wearing their skin far from their bones
It is to be so
Or sail to the bottom of the sea.
The Spectrum of Weltanschauung
I can scrawl each word on the page,
kiss every person I love
and count on every finger how many times I have stared up at the sky in wonder
of how the Earth exists and where it looks upon me in that moment.
I see others in the stark repetition of the pains and pleasures I’ve felt
Ruling out each idiotic representation of a new generation
Blocking out the phrases and stickiness of culture’s penetration
And exclaim again at the sky, now darkened and chill
How this can be the Earth that scowls upon me?
how human are we to choke at the sight of struggle
or snap in a tension tightwalk?
are you reading, wrapping your head around these thoughts
these strangulations of censure
of selection and natural evolution
Here, beginning in ones and twos
There, infinite strings of numbers too long to grasp
Weltanschauung stretches out in between.