Pale Weather
I wish I could paint a
world that made sense inside
the blank behind my eyes, of the
deepening sorrow I can't will away,
that I had a cigarette that never
burned away, so I could say 'I am
never without a friend,' but I live
a fool of romance, and I
dance when I'm alone, caught
caring about a thing too large, something
I could not hold or, make stay, so I
burn my throat because
I breathe too deep, and I
swallow too hard and swell
too big, and float, on the pale weather waves
of the too many things I cannot
do to make myself, my fails,
go away.
Boroughs
The old man with a
pockmarked face can see
far enough at me
to see the reflecting light
that lights my eyes, but he can't
see the thunder that
shakes me, can't hold me steady--and wouldn't--
enough to empty out the boroughs
tethered inside, can't
imagine, at his best and with
his most wrinkled brow
the grout I've pressed in
to keep the hurt
from seeping out, can't
make me better than
I can never make myself.
Quickly Slowing
I lied, to the old (well,
not so old, but TOO old) man in a
chair with wheels, I told him
that my life was
squeals of joy, leaving out
the part where they turn
to screams and scare even me, so
it seems, I lied to me, too.
What good will it be when
I can lie on an arm not my own,
can feel at home with my mind
and tell time to
fall sweetly,
not in beat, anymore
with my quickly slowing
he--
--art--.
No Stranger
I am comtemplating,
as my cheeks--yes, those--fall numb,
what to do when the power
doesn't come back on in time
to juice up the life of
my only last lights, what my hands
will touch without the lust
of these keys, what my voice
will say to the brown, Carle-reeds
in the space around my cat-commanded bed,
--and my head--what my lips
will touch when two Kools aren't
"cool" enough, like the cheap box of a home,
and the time spent alone, what
will my thoughts do with
too many to twist into, with no light,
no paper, no smoke, no
stranger. What will I do with
just me, in the dark?
At Bay
I am going to bed at 9 tonight.
I won't wake up--not in time
to put another eager letter under the evil clip.
My phone won't stir, with nothing to feed her, maybe
I'll sleep nude in just my silence, in a perfect
bliss of not missing a thing,
until my mom turns over my bed with her
butting head, wills my pain, at bay, with
a happy girl--my world--calling
out to me, saying things she doesn't mean
the way they mean to me, like:
Where did Mommy go?
I said, "You do."
You do not exist.
You can say, "I am still here,"
And tell me I can feel you,
but I cannot feel a thing, since the day
you felt the urge to walk so far away
in the wrongest of directions
and they hid you in menacing bars,
you are the menace of my heart, and
I can hate you, if I want to,
If I wanted, I could curse you, If I want,
I can pretend--it's easy, you know--that
you don't exist. I could and I should
because you don't, except--no,
I won't, keep on waiting where
there is no light at the end,
keep believing you can mend my
flitting seams, stretch beyond the teams
of men coalition-ing you in, I won't, you can't, I
could forget if you hadn't--I wish!--that you didn't
exist--I wish!--that my life hadn't
led me to where
you never even bothered to be, that you NEVER
existed in me! I could do it, believe it,
believe you're not in my soul, will away the
laugh that got me,
everytime, the way you are always
brought to mind, I could wish, I could pretend, I
could end it with you.
I could believe you never existed, except that
you do.
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