Tell Me How You Really Feel #27

I come home every
night, to a cold, lonely bed.
I fucking hate you
for dying before I could
divorce your Kool-Aid drunk ass.

Odi et amo.
You, always, my Lesbia.
Nescio? Why? Why?
I understand naught. You. Me.
Truth, strength, pain. Eternity.

 Feelings are for fools
I climb atop the dais
receive my award
shiny, new, EGOT. Worthless.
I place it with your ashes.

You’re not my idol.
Never were, never will be.
You were my dessert
I was yours. Now? A pillar
of salt, rubbed into my wounds.

Behind the steering
wheel of your car, I am blind.
Still, I avoid trains
other cars, and concrete walls.
You can rot in hell. Alone.

Sonnet 43's Bastard Child

I love you like bad poetry
like every beautiful phrase turned trite
every sonnet over parsed and overworked
every donut flung into the sky
only to fall to earth, with a jelly splat

I love you to the depth of the moon
and the breadth of a garlic bread morning after
dunked in coffee, regular, left to ferment
on the nightstand
like gum affixed to a bedpost

I love you like Shakespeare
recited by a once fine gentleman
holding a cardboard sign
begging for a sandwich, a tuppence
repentance

I love you in words silent
and clanking through
an ancient copper pipe
to a disconnected viaduct

I love you in prayer notes
tucked into the Wailing Wall
and in notes found
by an injured spouse

I love you in all the ways
we never spoke of
while we were both alive
and breathing was a kiss

 

 

Turn

Waiting at the red light
This is the turn
the right turn I took
so many nights
after the bars closed
after everyone went
somewhere
with someone

I, alone, in my car
waiting for the light to turn
but I hang a right on red
driving on instinct
on muscle memory
not sure if my eyes are open
at this after hours after hour
until I pull into your drive

And I don’t know how you knew
how you always knew
sitting on the porch
with two steaming hot cups of tea
on the small round table

Maybe its been a week
Maybe a month, two months, three months
Maybe yesterday
Since I pulled into your drive

You’re waiting for me
You open my door
fold me into you
I breathe you in

We stand
until I feel safe enough to sit
The tea has gone tepid
We drink anyway
We sit there, on your porch
the sky pinks
the stars disappear

 

1996

Your quilt, one of many

Stitched with tears, bakes in sunshine

National Mall grass

Ghost Knife – Two tankas

I had forgotten
the sharp knife of loneliness
that carves grey into
flesh, bone, leaving gaping holes
Nothing fills them. Nothing. Nothing.

 When will I remove
my wedding band? When you stop
ignoring my words.
Searching for why, for answers
to questions I never asked.

Air Brakes Cranks

One more thing you took when you left:
Simple pleasure of turning the cranks.

The shop smells of rubber
sweat, molten metal, grease
crowded with every kind of
bicycle possible
standing in racks on the floor
suspended from the ceiling
leaning against each other
in a beautiful disarray
of type, size, color, purpose.

Jersies, vests, shorts, bibs
socks, gloves, shoes, clips
water bottles, bottle cages
tubes, tires, pumps, wheels
tools, levers, lights
baskets, panniers, racks.

Helmets.

So much joy in this little shop
Another home, back then
in the beginning
in the middle. 

Now?

In the aftermath of the end?

When lava tears fall
melting
choking
obliterating
friend and enemy alike?

 It is just another place.

Alienation.

Anomie.

Upheaval.

I leave, without buying anything
without saying a word.

Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Who the Fuck are You Anyway?

I can’t see you Friday,
I’m Busy.

 Maybe we can spend time together
SaturdaySundayMondayTuesdayWednesdayThursday
Perhaps Next Friday?

 No. I’ll be Busy then, too.

And Every Day After That.

Click.

With a click of the phone
my world went dark.
Everything that had ever happened
everything that ever happened before
everything ever ever after that moment:

Commentary.

 Every action, rote, pointless.
Icicles form from my breath
shackles of meaningless guide me
dying to know why.

The Sky is Falling

The meteor shower was fierce and beautiful.
Fiery rocks streaked across sky
Red-gold-orange rainbow, howling
landing somewhere beyond.
There would be ruins in the landing:
Craters, fires, the dead.

 Where we were, miles from the edge
of the city, we gazed up up up
raptured by glitter trails.

Someday, those fierce rocks will land,
devastation will be our death.
But that day was not today
had not been yesterday
and likely would not be tomorrow.

 We stare at the showers of sparkles
listen to the howl shattering pitch
feel the sparks as they rain down
on our hair, cheeks, outstretched hands
a fast, yet gentle sprinkling.

 No, not today, not yesterday, not tomorrow.
But soon, sooner than we can plan for.
We were children, and we were ignorant.