Tuesday, August 18, 2015

waiting for flowers

it's all i can think about
like taking my breath away, clenching my diaphragm, digging my nails into my palms
thinking about it
each scenario flows into the next
reality and fantasy swarm like a funneling dust devil that drives you from 2nd base.
i want what i can't have
and in my stronger moments assume that trivializing it as such easily names this feeling
comfort in cliche
but then complexity pushes my platitudes aside
what if
why not
why now
how much of this can i manage
how close to the edge do i dare
what choice do i have
the thought of it pursues me
what is it really
it is novel
like i've never fucking been here before
i risk everything to turn it aside
i risk everything to turn everything else aside and fall into it
it feels cowardly not to grab at what my heart wants
it feels cowardly to indulge in a potentially fleeting appetite
it's pumpkin time
my life is
my choices make me what
the choices are not as pressing as the way we live with them
does that hold
am i moralizing
perhaps it is a question of restructuring my life with intention
if my life keeps leaning toward this kind of longing
then it becomes of question of preserving the things i love
by introducing new boundaries that permit the things i desire
lest resentment take root, nay root deeper
i have already compromised
in the repressive reflex shame instills
right now, however
it's all i want
i waist an afternoon waiting for flowers
i hope, for my sake, they never come

Monday, June 15, 2015

an aroma: putrid, if not earthen
emitting bubbles and it slurps the dead
and the living between the dialogue
listening to the metamorphosis
its fragrant movement
noting, the alchemist observes
as the prima materia boiling
the cauldron ignites beneath
flame: blue, the fierce of fate
with a match, I strike in part
only exhaled, painful inhale,
a reluctant plying with consciousness
recovered apnea breath sipping shallow
each day again
with them I die
time of infinite pulse by the elements
to return a decomposing soul
for an oubliette made rather flame
awaiting vessel
a cold, dark in the unturned, left memory
shadowy in molding lichen musky chaos
to syncopated rhythm

You occupy peeling paint shadows
in the corners of my mind
bent by sills collecting the sacred dust
of secrets long since held and forgotten
lighted by bourbon soaked lamps
of black iron and thick, hexagonal glass issuing
amber light through a small, antique window
held open by the flashlight we brought
to let in the rare, gracious breeze
carrying the song of an historic street.
We press into each dark promise,
the heat of night unforgiving
like the choice we make;
raucous waves of voices raised in transcendent praise
thankful for the night they will soon forget
to Dionysus they clamor
and their worship covers our indulgence
at her altar.
We do not choose our calamity,
but join in the song that was ever sung of us:
somewhere a trumpet
then a horn takes its place
soon the stomping gives us rhythm;
we pause into into into far into the eyes of the other
deeper we scope where we dared not before
lest we, brought to this temptation, fall hungry,
but having embraced the inevitable we plunge.
Another corner of your mouth invites mine.
You whisper words from 100 years ago:
If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice,
I would take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again.
Then words brand into my neck with each hot breath,
new words never before spoken or repeated,
the glass house forsaken.
Your well-worn fingers are nimble and sure
never misplaced, ever finding their aim
an exploration long since rehearsed, though never on flesh.
You reach for dark corners tucked under tapered cotton
and find each crevice conforms to your touch.
A shriek of drunken laughter sings the descant of my moan.
This room is ours;
the wooden floor swells and squeaks as we spin
against the gray wall taking turns to carve the feast,
when the light catches your eyes my hungry heart pauses
taking you in and
exhales the free sigh of an impulse foretold,
now fulfilled.
To resist was then.
My bare foot finds a low, heavy chair
long since draped with white southern linen
over a lonely chaise in a forsaken room,
it holds my weight as I fold into yours.
We amuse the ghosts with our vibrant pulse
burning out what was left of our sustenance;
nothing pleases the dead more than
the foolishness of the living
for they covet our capriciousness
as they regret the risks they forsook.
I hear my name on your lips and am reborn
your hands forget their gentleness
and press into my shoulder pulling and pushing
my gaze further still,
the smell of liquor on your breath
fogs the look in your eyes I may never know
at the moment you release your soul to my domain,
I remember my promises, though some ought be called cowardice,
and see the world before me as it ever was
without you.