Thursday, August 16, 2012

Seed


A far off storm
ripples through the moist
night.

Laying there,
eyes moving beneath taught lids,
my muscles tense as
a stiffness spreads like moist cobwebs
just beneath my skin.

Then, just as
an anesthetic failure on the operating table-
my eyes peel wide with silent panic,
a warm tear falls down my temple;
my tongue is cotton, and
I cannot cry out.

It's not a masked
killer, or an oily, 
tentacled monster that chases me-
but the rotten seed of a plant
sewn from love and left to the frost,
many years before.

We are all each other's
nagging feelings.

They say our ears turn red 
when thoughtful people remember; but
cold fright is more accurate
tale as
a shadow slithers 
across my grave.

Long hours I've spent with ghosts;
judging, questioning,
continuing ill-fated affairs and
imagining unwritten romance.

All the grudges held 
out of unfounded, misplaced pride
and embittered in the fires of 
childish haste;
fall back, turning around
and sour only myself.

All of these things are chasing me

and every moment I lay calm,
resigned to deep dreams-

she finds me,

she hugs me,

and I wake 

screaming.







This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Concerning the Blank

One would think
a crisp, white plain
broken only with lines
of blue
and red
and sometimes a blinking 
cursor
would be met
with the spoils of prior
contemplation,
great things brewed 
in grey matter tea.
One should be reminded of
great masters
poised fingers over
worn keys;
thundering concertos to come.
Yet the perceived
masterpiece simply sits
behind otherworldly tension.

Dust tends to gather in these moments
tumbleweeds crisscrossing
reminding us of our own stillness
glasses fog, smudged fingerprints appear
temple screws mysteriously
unscrew themselves
and housework becomes an
exotic
sensual
distraction.

Paper cuts become a
dangerous
reality.

For all the notes that came before;
in showers,
cars,
unromantic dates,
and long,
lonely walks;
only the lost bits 
of grocery lists remain
the twice forgotten red onion
remains in the miserable
forefront
of your 
rotting,
prehistoric
brain.





This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.