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.
Showing posts with label prose poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose poetry. Show all posts
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.
---
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Falling For Apperances
Waiting for the train, the safest place to hide from you, the platform stirring with the passing students from around the city. The smell of your left over cologne lingered in my black coat, you know – the one with the sailor buttons. The words could not be forgotten as they raced over and over again while the trains passed in the opposite direction. Fingering the necklace you bought me that day portside near Tacoma, Washington, San Francisco seemed to be the loneliest place on earth.
Platform rumbled and the doors open. The smell of the putrid body order and stale alcohol took over the nostalgic smell of you. Back in Oakland I went to that small café of Webster where we had once wrote in silence while drinking drip coffee and not talked about how we cannot live with each other. It wasn’t love we both had realized, but the idea of love.
We had walked around the Mission days previous and saw the Christmas lights glitter with hope of families and decorated trees. Holding hands and talking of a future not involving each other although we did not admit it. You wanted little ones running throughout your earthquake bound townhouse. I wanted a home by the bay and a room for writing and waiting/ we could never agree on the color of salmon but quibbled endlessly over the tone of peach.
Before the platform, before the tunnel to Oakland, before the café where we had not talked we had seen the future boil down to an incident that reflected all the reasons that we could not make it.
Your painting still hangs over my bed and I’m sure you look at that poem I wrote you on a daily basis. All we lost was time, a name and some nonsensical debates.
Platform rumbled and the doors open. The smell of the putrid body order and stale alcohol took over the nostalgic smell of you. Back in Oakland I went to that small café of Webster where we had once wrote in silence while drinking drip coffee and not talked about how we cannot live with each other. It wasn’t love we both had realized, but the idea of love.
We had walked around the Mission days previous and saw the Christmas lights glitter with hope of families and decorated trees. Holding hands and talking of a future not involving each other although we did not admit it. You wanted little ones running throughout your earthquake bound townhouse. I wanted a home by the bay and a room for writing and waiting/ we could never agree on the color of salmon but quibbled endlessly over the tone of peach.
Before the platform, before the tunnel to Oakland, before the café where we had not talked we had seen the future boil down to an incident that reflected all the reasons that we could not make it.
Your painting still hangs over my bed and I’m sure you look at that poem I wrote you on a daily basis. All we lost was time, a name and some nonsensical debates.
Monday, August 17, 2009
between you me and paris i find myself alone (again or)
It’s been three years or more and I still can’t get into it. An ordinary angel tossed about feeling disrespected and disillusioned. It’s a junkyard of false starts and reoccurring mistakes. I see reflections of the future in the cup of water. I’m not everything I am supposed to be.
The dog sits silently besides the window, watching rain fall and looking longingly at the leash. We haven’t been outside for days. I can handle this myself but why torture the dog? I grow tired of the dim-witted answers he barks back at me.
I think I can make it back after the end of the day. It’s a slow concept, reconciling myself with only my thoughts to bother me. I’ll try sleep, my body wanting independence from my brain. It’s a closeted process.
First I lay on the right, think of all the possibilities. Then I turn to the left and find all the faults I thought I could escape. On my back my mind is tormented with thoughts of both but then sudden it turns to Paris. In Paris, my mind tells me, you were happy. Europe knows disaster and I am not it. It is the country of cheese, wine and languages
In America I could never figure out what made you so unhappy. Pictures from countries before relapse in the safety of a pitch black mind. A condolence of regrets and remorse little the floor after the winter has past. Cliché, but your vulgar silence offends me. It’s all about what we did and didn’t do.
Instead of talking to me, your repetition and repletion of persecution surrenders to the pain of your mother’s guilt. The first half of my cigarette smoked itself. I cannot tell as you tell me over and over again to “finally show some goddamn emotion”. It was never about the high we discovered but more about the connection that I really craved. The remote memories come seeping back and place me in their righteous addiction.
I’m here today and they expect me to be tomorrow. Looking out at the substitute scene placed before me, I can’t see the future without knowing you now. Decomposition of found objects, shifting my weight from side to side. The main attraction was me, but I tried to pass it off as you. Hiding from the mic and looking in from the side.
In confidence I eagerly promised to stand and deliver. All in all I felt justified to take apart all what wasn’t right. Our versions of honesty are very skewed.
The dog sits silently besides the window, watching rain fall and looking longingly at the leash. We haven’t been outside for days. I can handle this myself but why torture the dog? I grow tired of the dim-witted answers he barks back at me.
I think I can make it back after the end of the day. It’s a slow concept, reconciling myself with only my thoughts to bother me. I’ll try sleep, my body wanting independence from my brain. It’s a closeted process.
First I lay on the right, think of all the possibilities. Then I turn to the left and find all the faults I thought I could escape. On my back my mind is tormented with thoughts of both but then sudden it turns to Paris. In Paris, my mind tells me, you were happy. Europe knows disaster and I am not it. It is the country of cheese, wine and languages
In America I could never figure out what made you so unhappy. Pictures from countries before relapse in the safety of a pitch black mind. A condolence of regrets and remorse little the floor after the winter has past. Cliché, but your vulgar silence offends me. It’s all about what we did and didn’t do.
Instead of talking to me, your repetition and repletion of persecution surrenders to the pain of your mother’s guilt. The first half of my cigarette smoked itself. I cannot tell as you tell me over and over again to “finally show some goddamn emotion”. It was never about the high we discovered but more about the connection that I really craved. The remote memories come seeping back and place me in their righteous addiction.
I’m here today and they expect me to be tomorrow. Looking out at the substitute scene placed before me, I can’t see the future without knowing you now. Decomposition of found objects, shifting my weight from side to side. The main attraction was me, but I tried to pass it off as you. Hiding from the mic and looking in from the side.
In confidence I eagerly promised to stand and deliver. All in all I felt justified to take apart all what wasn’t right. Our versions of honesty are very skewed.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
I lost what I wrote last night (which was really good) but wrote this today instead
Civilian Wars
Placing resentments on the kitchen table. We forget – never forgive. In moment of anger and lust we resign to our garage door loneliness and take for granted the silence that comes before the dawn. In the background Spanish singers speak of stealing souls of lovers – we are spared that for the time being.
Later, in a moment after the tin foil and lace, we twine together like pieces of string and spices. This lack of momentum is all we care for as the sun breaks the contempt between us. Kisses replaced tongue tied lightening as we undressed like cross-eyed strangers, not sure what the other had in store. The obsequious gesture of your finger tracing my nipple had an uncertainty that could not go un-notice but yet made it hard.
The vigorous judgment lay between the sheets soiled in a magnitude of lust and betrayal. I always do something your not quite sure is right and your eyes list all my simple mistakes. I am young, I say, I will learn. The borderline between sanity and remaining calm in the placating morning light that never really touches the corners of my mind.
Later we resign to the shower that exhumes all doubt of reasonable debate. The mirror shows two lovers stripping the dirt and misunderstandings and washing it down the drain with the soap and water. Your skin becomes a mellow light of gold while mine might embarrass a porcelain plate. You ask why we never did this before and I think so innocently that it might not have come to mind. Your hands wash my hair and I touch your back so softly it might have been the breeze from the open window.
The dawn turns to midday and midday to afternoon and so on and so forth. We lay in silence as the day looses itself to nightfall. The warmth of your skin turned snow to ice. The moon smiled in a beautiful but yet annihilating way and in the distance we hear fireworks left over from a celebration of independence.
The rose colored glasses you bought me stand aside the bed waiting to be worn. Gathering your resentments from the kitchen table, I realize it is always you who leaves first.
Placing resentments on the kitchen table. We forget – never forgive. In moment of anger and lust we resign to our garage door loneliness and take for granted the silence that comes before the dawn. In the background Spanish singers speak of stealing souls of lovers – we are spared that for the time being.
Later, in a moment after the tin foil and lace, we twine together like pieces of string and spices. This lack of momentum is all we care for as the sun breaks the contempt between us. Kisses replaced tongue tied lightening as we undressed like cross-eyed strangers, not sure what the other had in store. The obsequious gesture of your finger tracing my nipple had an uncertainty that could not go un-notice but yet made it hard.
The vigorous judgment lay between the sheets soiled in a magnitude of lust and betrayal. I always do something your not quite sure is right and your eyes list all my simple mistakes. I am young, I say, I will learn. The borderline between sanity and remaining calm in the placating morning light that never really touches the corners of my mind.
Later we resign to the shower that exhumes all doubt of reasonable debate. The mirror shows two lovers stripping the dirt and misunderstandings and washing it down the drain with the soap and water. Your skin becomes a mellow light of gold while mine might embarrass a porcelain plate. You ask why we never did this before and I think so innocently that it might not have come to mind. Your hands wash my hair and I touch your back so softly it might have been the breeze from the open window.
The dawn turns to midday and midday to afternoon and so on and so forth. We lay in silence as the day looses itself to nightfall. The warmth of your skin turned snow to ice. The moon smiled in a beautiful but yet annihilating way and in the distance we hear fireworks left over from a celebration of independence.
The rose colored glasses you bought me stand aside the bed waiting to be worn. Gathering your resentments from the kitchen table, I realize it is always you who leaves first.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
and in which this is how i see the world
You Took Me To The Sea And I Forgot To Count The Days
Fold small pieces of paper memories – objects in motion hold no regards to personal injustice. Looking in your eyes I find ruminates of rejected pigments of your lack of momentum. You falter on the flaws of mine and the perversion of finger tips on smooth skin. In the remaining afterglow of havoc formed by cries of thunder, the motorists on the street below have little trouble commuting while we speak slowly words only poets and bakers know. We fold like croissants into each other and merge in a combination of cheesecake and Marion berry – perfection comes in time.
Eyes closed and whispered “be patient” and I try but I fail and the dough falls and you lose touch. Inside my answers lay a question not ready to be posed but in order to continue we must address what we already have at stake.
In a port by the sea we lost days in discipline of unanswered cell phones and mindless self indulgence. In the bookstore we stole used books that needed to be freed and drank coffee and when in the silence of the small of your back we looked forwards towards Babylon and lost again what we had failed hard to regain.
Years later, when all has healed, we shall return to the city by the sea and find lust and love in the constellations of streetlights and the moon that sits atop the waters edge.
There is a sorrowful tenderness but also an emotional expressionism which augments an ectoplasmic eeriness. Caressing your words so softly, careful they might fall through the cracks of time, I slide into the idea of songs, sonnets and sorrow.
Unlikely
Pieces of recent moments are lining up in the doorway – the coffee pot watching us make love and the bookshelf is falling to pieces. You are a Catcher in the Rye kind of liar and I can’t seem to distinguish reality from fantasy. The augmented adjacent sounds of perversion—love and redemption – scatter on my skin with your fingers tracing the lines of all decent regrets.
Evening dawns and the fleeting happiness goes with the light. Whiskey and poetry merge in a combined hatred of each other. I’m trying to resemble a person not suffering in jest of needles and love. You line up soldiers on the table – napoleons army crashing wave after wave down the esophagus – somewhere far away the sky cries out in thunder – and all I do in sit on my stairs and portray a slow suicide.
But in the positive syncopation of apparent behavior -- your vulgar silence offends me. I am not conveniently described but yet there is a simplicity in my seven types of ambiguity. Have heard rumors of who I used to be? To tell the truth I started most of them. There is a sadness in the various positions of vocal chords.
Fold small pieces of paper memories – objects in motion hold no regards to personal injustice. Looking in your eyes I find ruminates of rejected pigments of your lack of momentum. You falter on the flaws of mine and the perversion of finger tips on smooth skin. In the remaining afterglow of havoc formed by cries of thunder, the motorists on the street below have little trouble commuting while we speak slowly words only poets and bakers know. We fold like croissants into each other and merge in a combination of cheesecake and Marion berry – perfection comes in time.
Eyes closed and whispered “be patient” and I try but I fail and the dough falls and you lose touch. Inside my answers lay a question not ready to be posed but in order to continue we must address what we already have at stake.
In a port by the sea we lost days in discipline of unanswered cell phones and mindless self indulgence. In the bookstore we stole used books that needed to be freed and drank coffee and when in the silence of the small of your back we looked forwards towards Babylon and lost again what we had failed hard to regain.
Years later, when all has healed, we shall return to the city by the sea and find lust and love in the constellations of streetlights and the moon that sits atop the waters edge.
There is a sorrowful tenderness but also an emotional expressionism which augments an ectoplasmic eeriness. Caressing your words so softly, careful they might fall through the cracks of time, I slide into the idea of songs, sonnets and sorrow.
Unlikely
Pieces of recent moments are lining up in the doorway – the coffee pot watching us make love and the bookshelf is falling to pieces. You are a Catcher in the Rye kind of liar and I can’t seem to distinguish reality from fantasy. The augmented adjacent sounds of perversion—love and redemption – scatter on my skin with your fingers tracing the lines of all decent regrets.
Evening dawns and the fleeting happiness goes with the light. Whiskey and poetry merge in a combined hatred of each other. I’m trying to resemble a person not suffering in jest of needles and love. You line up soldiers on the table – napoleons army crashing wave after wave down the esophagus – somewhere far away the sky cries out in thunder – and all I do in sit on my stairs and portray a slow suicide.
But in the positive syncopation of apparent behavior -- your vulgar silence offends me. I am not conveniently described but yet there is a simplicity in my seven types of ambiguity. Have heard rumors of who I used to be? To tell the truth I started most of them. There is a sadness in the various positions of vocal chords.
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