An Occasion and Countenance.
Your body lay concealed in mine; I kiss your shoulder and taste sweat. The moon hung low as I lay awake, watching your chest rise and fall. Running my fingers over your broad shoulders and down your back I tried to imagine a life with you, but knew my faults kept getting in the way of any hope I may have. This year has compromised me.
You stir in your sleep, roll over and close your arms around me. Whisper love that you won’t remember in the morning and sleepily open one eye; the kisses will remain with me for years after you have gone. I push my body against yours, move my legs and nibble on your nipples. Your smirk opens your mouth and presses against mine.
You remain inside of me as we lay butterfly kisses on each other. A small glimpse of trust finds its way inside our mouths as we disengage and lay in pieces next to each other. You roll over and sleep takes you as I place my hand gently on your side and try not to cry.
Days later there is devastation in the aftermath of intense heat. I await your return only to finally recognize your lack of self-awareness. Your number changed and mine stayed the same. I caught a jet to a city of flashing lights and stilettos whilst you resided to a state of ice and nocturnal daydreams.
In the moments before slumber your smile gains my nostalgia and the thoughts of your laughter intrudes my ears. The sirens pierce the nights and the volts of electricity firing within my reason conduct themselves to a peaceful rest.
The reluctance of fluidity spars the occasion and countenance. After all, it was all we ever knew.
--
se la vie. I need to get out of this depressing prose poetry rut. Argh.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
still thinking of someone who does not call
Obsession is Another Word For "Love"
Passing into antiquity – I thought only then of the fireflies glistering in between the rail tracks – each absorbing a small ruminates of love in this post-modern world. The buildings are all replicated in a fashion sense of North by Northwest.
Passing an old building that had remained lost in time that aged about the region of A Glass Menagerie. It was all very Tennessee Williams. You quoted a phrase from Gertrude Stein where I much rather speak in words of E. E. Cummings. He is too hip you argue over sparkling water and cucumbers. The air is a toxic smell of rain, sunshine and paper mills. In the distance a mountain rises over the horizon and claims the lives at least three skiers each year.
It was Tacoma, Washington that stole love from me. A hard pressed day to find romance in its business center but at a small record store next to a strip joint you bought me The Police first album. I tried to pass this indignity off without too much trouble but knew if you had just spent that extra dollar and bought that Mingus album then maybe we would have had a chance.
It was Olympia then that had us sleeping on floors with flamenco pounding outside in this mid-July sort of exuberant heat. Down by the docks -- the smell of salt defined out smiles – we tried to hold together but knew that the wine had settled and the only thing holding love was a small string that could have expanded to rope if I had just let it. It was the sun and the clouds that fought for days imploring matters both existential and mathematical. The heat came as the sun rose to speak and your eye quivered and changed colors. I questioned if your wax wings could hold my glaze and then you fell like Icarus and I lost you then but I had won the debate.
As time progressed I found a certain hope for the loss of prophetic fate. Sabotage is not answering questions.
---
Passing into antiquity – I thought only then of the fireflies glistering in between the rail tracks – each absorbing a small ruminates of love in this post-modern world. The buildings are all replicated in a fashion sense of North by Northwest.
Passing an old building that had remained lost in time that aged about the region of A Glass Menagerie. It was all very Tennessee Williams. You quoted a phrase from Gertrude Stein where I much rather speak in words of E. E. Cummings. He is too hip you argue over sparkling water and cucumbers. The air is a toxic smell of rain, sunshine and paper mills. In the distance a mountain rises over the horizon and claims the lives at least three skiers each year.
It was Tacoma, Washington that stole love from me. A hard pressed day to find romance in its business center but at a small record store next to a strip joint you bought me The Police first album. I tried to pass this indignity off without too much trouble but knew if you had just spent that extra dollar and bought that Mingus album then maybe we would have had a chance.
It was Olympia then that had us sleeping on floors with flamenco pounding outside in this mid-July sort of exuberant heat. Down by the docks -- the smell of salt defined out smiles – we tried to hold together but knew that the wine had settled and the only thing holding love was a small string that could have expanded to rope if I had just let it. It was the sun and the clouds that fought for days imploring matters both existential and mathematical. The heat came as the sun rose to speak and your eye quivered and changed colors. I questioned if your wax wings could hold my glaze and then you fell like Icarus and I lost you then but I had won the debate.
As time progressed I found a certain hope for the loss of prophetic fate. Sabotage is not answering questions.
---
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