poem
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Reminded myself not to talk to you. Not even to look. I’m always reminded that I am not Swayze – and you are not a ghost. That this is happening now. That we are not some formless clay spinning on a wheel waiting to be touched. When & how did we end up this way?
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My writing adorns the walls of this ridiculous, worn-down circus tent. Fitting, that I’ve mastered both walking the tightrope and cracking the whip. I jump, through flaming hoops I set alight. I am the elephant, the seventh clown stuffed into a clown-car. A churlish charade. Watch. This is the part where I shoot down all the tin-cans and pick the giant
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“Life is a lot more fragile than we think. So you should treat others in a way that leaves no regrets. Fairly, and if possible, sincerely.” ― Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance Gentle, now. Unfold these shoulders: feel the creases, smooth them out, slowly. Skin meets skin: a tender joining of fragile things. Careful folds,
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where was the world…
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Last night, I dreamt of an old friend picking up smoking, cigarettes with the look of pencils (because she wanted to be a teacher, you see). I dreamt of people I did not know. Last night, I dreamt, aside from her smoking lead, of a table mired in the middle of nowhere, all of us seated:
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Observe. Spit in his face, and he turns the other cheek. This man who is not even a doormat. A doormat is welcoming, even when stepped on. He is but the puddle you step over: shallow, dirty, unwanted, cold. Once, a part of something greater.
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via Daily Prompt: Witness There he sits on the tower: magnificent, tremendous, clad in strained muscle, clenching his brows. Stone-faced: help- less. Help- less.
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Somewhere, a room falls into sterility. We sit there, blank faces surgical tools minus scrub and garb. Who will make the first cut? Who can? Here no-one is the most qualified. And so, we wander without walking. I catch the butterfly, wing-eyes fluttering open and shut cases. You check your chapbook for ever-creasing lines. We
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words that I don’t swallow come out as warbled waves that leave nary a ripple on conscience or memory. words, that leave no mark on the banks, far-flung islands. but here in my clenched-fist prayer I know that someone has seen it regardless. perhaps a fisherman? a kid skipping stones across the surface or the
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Unwilling survivors, we strain these waters for warmth. Suspended in sea-salt and brine, preserve this moment – the lines between blue, brown and bright; driven splinters into submerged shoulders. Boards which seem to know all and see all. The scent of silence. Dread treading water. Everywhere but nowhere. Anything but everything. If we rebuilt ourselves
ugly stage 