Whatever we’d said amongst friends
has steadily grown fat in the cold
of this dismal atmosphere.
It wasn’t until post-coitus
that we’d reappear like dandelions
with twice the tenacity.
Something like cognizance overflows
the opal dome of domesticity,
that, frankly, I’ve been trying to rupture
since that day I pulled a nerve.
Next time, act like an undeserving pest.
Yours is the last request I’ll ever honor.
Sonority’s a drag,
and the weather’s feathery implements…
Lastly, we consent to be collared
with a shock and awe kind of strategy,
and from there,
it stagnates, an antiquated metric.
One can only play dead for so long
before the scavengers start salivating.
Have I given enough thought?
I sought to pacify the plangency,
ritual elegance undusted,
shifty whispers from a trusted friend.
Nowhere this is ending semi-abruptly
to fixate on badness.
My mouth in a madness utters “One.”
Shutters sideways eyed.
Manic dances descried.
More salt for the devouring wound.
An anomaly is approaching
the surface of this thought
woven from dry, brittle yarns
whose colors have faded
and ceased to captivate
more discerning eyes.
Of course the time
for despising has passed.
The downcast pedestrians
retreat into yearning, arms crossed,
pockets full of remembrance,
poking holes in the fog.
Catalogs of ghost towns
rest easy on the pyres
with which we’ll commemorate
the waxen moon.
We tread with irregular step
across these dunes of salt and bother,
false brothers and sisters
until the end peels back its velvet skin.
Within each of us is a hymn to the sea.
As the electric storm of our pride
expends itself in azure sputters,
the melody runs its fingers
through the sky.
The reply is vapor.
Needlessly, a hair is disturbed.
A paper rose is crushed.
Soon to be culled,
some whispering deficiency
and all it holds dear.
The searing flames later we sired.
Then what was up with the perspiring,
the wandering choir
or we had once a tower
erected of names
(We were once a tower).
The calendar shifted.
We misplaced vows.
Nurtured the we that spin
and cry in some weird hurricane of lust.
The thought that counts its fingers.
You and me, we two in trust,
lingering where our folly bleeds.
It’s 3:20AM and I’ve barely written
a thing, so am I truly going nuts?
I can’t even squeeze out enough
juice to write a personal poem
a la Frank O’Hara, that’s saying something.
I’ve had my share of caffeine, now
my eyes clink! the torture. And also
the torture of knowing that someone
you love is somewhere else sleeping
deeply while you sit dumbly
in an ill-lit house trying to
put words on a page.