In Motion Mirage

How long gone is this
reality?

Slipping and buzzing,
it's warm here.
How long till we melt away?


Like Dali's clocks, even.

Here, where lampposts line street sides
and the higher you climb,
       the clearer the view.

The scent of pine and earth;
Scorched by a fire.
It took days to put out.
We certainly learned our geography.

Because water is cleansing.

Boulders are tripping over rocks
       and down the stream.
   [They're too deep in thought.]

It's an intense experience.

As they become lost among themselves
and don't care who hears them thinking.
       In a state of hypnosis, really.

But the subject got changed and they lost their train of thought.

It's been a while now,
       But how long has this reality been gone?

Letters I Learned From

With the taste of stale smoke,

I approached her.

                She spoke.

and joked of our drug habbits.

Someone’s fingers licked piano keys; soflty

                Slowly

Sadly.

The warmth behind my eyes was misplaced but familiar.

I heard my voice for the first time as I spoke,

    Picking my way through our words.

A hand grazed my face as she looked at me and whispered words with her eyes.

My pockets were lined with only the residue of inspiration

Strung out,

 phased out,

 and cashed out.

I’ve always kept my windows open too wide.

besides,

These words don’t get read anymore.

Poetry?

I used to write poetry.

Now I mostly write words.

Irony

Irony has a sharp tongue and a bitter wit.

Irony is the quotes other people spray.

Irony is effort in being good.

Irony is an ultimatum.

Irony is avoidance.

Irony is helplessnes.

Irony is the length of this poem.

Irony is Elvis Presely making a song originally sung by a black woman famous.

Irony ain’t no friend of mine.

Isn’t that ironic?

Impact

And so this one's for you.

Because my voice is minimalistic.

And everything you do is extravagant. And lavish.

Because that's how you are.

Please believe me, I don't crticize you for it.

In fact, I envy it.

You and I both conceded to reality.

A different reality.

That day, (the day with no real date) that can exist only as a collection of memories, It rained.
It seemed complacent. The rain. Too sedate for lightning, too threatening for peace.

Of course it crossed my mind. More than once.

More than once I reflected through every lens. Including the colored ones.
But it only changed superficial details, and never all of them. At least not for the better.

All I had left was the apple core.

The top and bottom bearing the only green skin remaining. A grim reminder.
The rest of the core was seeded and mostly brown (It had been exposed). But I put it on my bookshelf.

It was out of sight and out of mind.

I went outside frequently. Never for anything specific, though often I would ride a bicycle.
I rode the bicycle through an orchard most days, until bending the frame on a tree.

I moved the apple core to my night stand, next to my bed.

They would take me out for coffee and I always ordered tea.
I didn't ever make the toast, but of course I would drink to it. I had to.

It rained again. Only this time more violently.

That night, when it rained, it was dark. Dark enough to kill the moon. And it did.
And the blackness above yelled and cracked its white whip. Punishing the earth.

The next clear day I came to you with the core.

You took it into the kitchen and offered me a cup of tea.
I drank it quickly and insisted on leaving, though I had no real reason to go. But I left.

I never saw what you did with the remnants of that apple.



And so this one's for you.

Beacuse my voice is minimalistic.

Speaking In Tongues

The Gong continued to ring and the Bell continued to toll.

Together they were harmonious, though neither understood the other.

Because one preferred tulips, the other, daisies.

But far too often creativity and apathy co-exist.

Pushed together, it can be overwhelming.

If I listened too intently it was muffled, like looking through your window.

The pearly gates are just too bright and could use a coat of paint.

Besides it was too early in the morning to pay attention.

So the leaves just rustled all day, never settling.

And he's quick with his hands, and you're quick to question.

Never forget that it's all in the head, no matter what they claim to know.

Because a second helping is a compliment, a third is considered rude.

The Trees, they tried to chirp like the birds, though the Rocks seemed to accomplish more.

The solidity seemed to be a factor in their favor.

So the Trees continued to grow. Twisting and leaning with the wind.

With eyes closed, and shoes unlaced, the wait for spring had already begun.

               

Untitled

I was asked to write a poem both for you and about you.

I sat for a long time and stared at my paper and wondered,

            “How can I write about someone beyond description?

            How do I take the essence of you and condence it down into words on a page?

Will everyone understand my metaphors that represent who and what you are to me?

Does that matter?”

These words, these lines, this paper. They could never do you justice.

Because there were so many things you were. And things you weren’t.

And that was how you liked it.

You were hot coffee, but rarely decaffinated.

You were Christmas morning, but never the night.

You were unfiltered cigarettes, but never Camels

You were the slot machines, but not always Las Vegas.

You were tea steeped in the sun, but not the sun itself

You were a Buick, and always a Queen.

You were a hot fire, but not the hearth.

You were a trip to Park City, but never the snow.

You were a sweet snack after school, albeit rarely a healthy one.

You were the fun part of fishing, but done mostly off of a bridge.

You may have been music, but you were certainly never the movies.

And you were whiskey and water, but never scotch on the rocks.

You are indescribable, and always unforgettable.