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January,
2009
Distance
The imperfection of rising
and falling from a
place above leads to riding on the wings
of
a dove down in darkness. He cries over
her
silent words of indifference. She'll
inherit
his money, nevertheless. He is overcome by
fright.
With hatred, he sighs. If he could cry,
he would.
He thinks, "If I could escape, I'd get out." He
can't.
He's in his own prison.
The amount of space
between the sheets
and his emotion appear in the cloudy
mirror
of sky above. His family connections
haven't
helped.
A knife pointed to his side, he
promises
a rose to a thorn. In a ritual of words
without
rings and certificate, he curses his deathbed
but
resounds in pleasure over his bride.
He will
crush his connection. Every sigh he's
released has
resulted in anger. She is not over her
old
lover. He asks her, "What is on your mind?"
He's
running to the crash site.
Distance has allowed him
existence
of dream landscapes he once knew.
Drawn blood
wounds his open flesh
as the needle digs in deeper.
Infection
swells his nodes as he pulls himself
up.
Stranger
Colored her eyes dark against
scarlet
lips and the bending, curved hips
She's leaving
for her act in vain
A little blue alleviates the
pain.
She was sitting around in the circle
haunted by
black magic, her tragic lips
before cut-glass cheekbones as
she lit up
an escape plan with fire.
She lives out for
the one desire
of the full noon before night,
taking
flight to Tokyo, another
episode before the
contract
signing, she couldn't go.
She refused the
appointments so she
sat around the restaurant all
day
making threats while wearing a frown.
She walked in
her circles with careful choices
of words above the
soothing soul and white noises
of the radiator. She
was a gladiator of filth.
She'd stick any substance up or
down there for
his chance at being her third boyfriend or
so.
He had another two on the go.
Her daily
sacrifice to the pretense of
staying sweet and
nice.
Problems? She could walk away if she
didn't
have glue and chemicals on the brain.
So she'll
get her tips together
and swear off doing this
forever
as she leaves the scent of jasmine and
greasy
stir fries behind and she pays no mind
to the sad followers
as she goes, thinking
she's got something on the go,
somewhere past
Tokyo. One night her oyster, if she
drinks
up the liquor and smiles silently, maybe.
She has
to attend her circle.
Underground
Figurine
he hasn't handled a natural breast
since the nights of
ninety-six
she has to get something off her chest
and
it's more than silicone
chatting all night on the
phone
about the failure of romance
while she wiggles her
hips on
thick heels waiting for the next dance
he once
asked a natural girl out
she told him with a natural
pout
that hers were really nice
but he'd never get to
see them
so he could get away from
An underground
figurine
who hopes that life turns out this way
down
the crooked track while headed
the right
way
down-and-out in donut shop
working for a high-school
flunkie
arrested for theft and fraud
and hauled up in
remand
with hookers and a heroin
junkie?
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