Phantasm

Spectral made real, minutes creep.
Every corner alive, the room casts shadows, deafening

You can hide away here

Thin veil, from the windowsill to the sky
Moon smirks through glass, unloading lonely thoughts
Parched lips, from sleepless nights, spiders weaving in silent stitches
The shadows danced, came alive, what was

What will never be

Phantasm, retreat under covers,
safety in blindness, veiled in silence.
Fretting they will never leave
until the light wakes you.
Scared to breathe

Life Cycle of a Morning

Stagnation, roll up your sleeves, no one sees you when you hide.
And I don’t care if you redefine yourself, using crayons to color your outsides.
Smiles and lines, contours smothering air, humid and stank, leaving the room after a night of lust, spread legs and pillow talk, vitriol words that hang,
distilling into sleep or dreams, between sleep apnea and lost sentiment coming apart at the seams.
Nobody sees you but me, the real you and hypothetical me,
flogging the morning hours, a fly circles overhead and the slow drip of coffee.

This beautiful morning needs to be imperfect– we love each other for the same purpose, reminders; sandman- clean out your eyes and kiss me with your morning breath,
my lips are dry and the clamminess of skin leaving out its last sweat.

This perfect morning, piggy-backing the quiet, save for the ‘buzz’ of a fly mother who lost her maggots, coasting past the morning newspaper, poverty, shootings- things you just can’t relate to.
People who live in the skids, broke bank accts. and blistered families, burned out– so wasted.

Oblivion makes it’s case.
Compound eyes shoot a glance my way
There’s nothing left to save but face.
The lifespan of a fly and my own kids close by
as I drift back to a less complicated place.

Bedfellows

If I had a choice, and of course I do.
The last time, we all get that one fleeting thought that decides to hang around.
I’ve spent too many hours here,
too many days pondering you.
Plug the hole with so many artifacts of the past,
the clouds overhang and the cigarette butts within kicking distance, once flicked– and attached to the mouths of strangers.
We all lie in bed, we spend- countless hours, to defend
our right to be careless or reckless, one in the same.

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ANTS

Piss on this nonsense,
You can’t make believe
with something in a constant state of sleep,
wakes when you’re not paying attention,
a surprise every time.
Wet dreams, drowning in sweat,
thinking “is this the best it will ever get??”
Can’t conceive of another way to take you on,
but it’s all a joke anyway.
These tattoos won’t dissolve,
when we thought it was a good idea,
and now that’s gone.
Mistakes. Pulled skin.
Tightly absorbed and interweaved.
This feeling almost pulsates, without origin, without a home,
cause you got no cause for alarm,
just the call of infallible silence.
Your head swims in it.

Here among the crowd, the people marching like ants
walking the mall,
a dedication I’ll never understand.
We aren’t alike- that’s cool.
One more tab under the tongue,
fools, everyone of you.
I am nothing like that,
breaking a pattern I never understood.
And it really makes no difference.
We all march sooner than later.

Xmas eve 20thirteen

A selfish act to want you back
or dwell on memories that don’t make sense.
One day won’t make difference to how I view
the world and go quietly into some snowy eve, break my fall
and then you leave.
Can’t help but want you back,
It’s a movie of my life I’m watching
all the reviews suck
no royalties, no trailers to come; just dumb luck
The return of disillusion- breaks and broken,
stuff we
couldn’t live without,
“happy holiday”, now go back to sleep

Doesn’t mean the same when the years slip quietly by into the night, or the light-
it’s all darkness and the sleigh bells fall away from earshot:
“jingle, jingle-cringe…”
I drift backwards from the anesthesia drip
might as well be that last shot of hard liquor that cascades across my
lips.

To all a good night,
this lonely parched winter…
life has all you need
when you let go
of what you don’t

Cycle (how I learned to walk away)

Here we go again.

Friends and then not friends,

possible reunions cut short.

Your need to extinguish and mine to never relent.

The foot moves forward only to take two steps back.

Love what you know and never stop.

I’m exhausted and the acrylic holds on.

Plaster the foundation with gravity,

or just let it die.

That’s all I wanted from you.

But every month it returns

spotting the moist areas, backdrops of discomfort

and the flow of imagination

cut short.

Dispose the waste, recycle and wait for its return.

The cycle of life or my hope

and its miscarriages

up for grabs.