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.

Wind, Sun

The Wind is gusting now.

Not continuously, but every 3 minutes.

It’s strong enough to bend trees;

            when it wants to be…

I stood with my back against them,

            (The Sun and The Wind),

trying to ignore them

for fear of what they would do if confronted.

But they continued anyway, and both

            with a bit of hipocracy.

Wind. Is always hypocritical.

Always in a quiet way.

And no one ever notices;

Not until everything it has touched

is twisted.

Deformed.

The Sun?

The Sun is more hypocritical than the wind.

            And much worse at hiding it.

Sure. The Sun still tries.

But you can always see it coming through.

Because The Sun…

The Sun will scorch whatever was there

and wont give a shit.

Even though you think it does.

So I…

I stood there, back still towards them,

and continue to ignore.

Even though I was fully aware

of what was going on,

            I chose to ignore.

Because what else could I do?

Options

I looked around me and saw nothing but bright lights and dull colors.

What the fuck am I doing here?

How the fuck do I get out of here?

What was for a long time a dimly lit room with soft yet vibrant colors was gone.

            Just gone.

Of course I freaked out.

They even had to put me in a straight jacket.

I ran around in circles, looking for that room.

Once, I caught a glimpse of it.

            It was even more beautiful than before.

Then it was gone and the lights were even brighter now. The colors were barely even colors.

            They were mostly muddled browns and blacks.

So when they came to me and looked me in the eye and told me “everything is going to be ok”
            I believed them.

                        I clung to that.

I needed them to tell me that I was going to be fine and that this room was not all that bad.

            I was a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome.

Soon, everything I did made more sense.

Because I was to “accept that old room is gone and grow to love this room. And other rooms.”

            But not the room I loved.

Time passed, though im not sure how much. Minutes? Hours? Days? Weeks?

            Who knows?

Eventually I stumled out of that room (with the bright lights and dull walls),

And I found myself somewhere familiar. My old room.

            But some thing had changed…

The colors were not quite as bright.

            And if I stared at the lights for long enough, they seemed to flicker.

                        And they flickered constantly.

I didn’t know what to do about the paint and the lights.

            So I kept quiet.

                        It seemed like the best option.

But now?

            Now I am dead on the inside.

                        And everything is gone.

                                    Just. Gone.

Enhanced Representation

We had criss-crossed feet and bloodshot eyes.

            And no one ever spilled the salt.

Even though the road was covered in ice.

But you, of course, would never waste so much salt.

            On something as trivial as ice.

Because that’s not how you were raised.

They were hospital corners,

And they were always crisp.

But you never even needed a watch.

And your hands were cold,

            But you knew the signs.

It was enhanced representation.

Your feet were always on the ground;

            Never on the table.

They constantly moved.

And you’d comfort and you’d scold

In a cocauphony of toungues

No one could consider loving.

            But we did.

The diamond wind chimes blew outside.

            But you didn’t even pay attention.

                        They didn’t seem to matter.

So with a handful of pills,

And a glass full of scotch,

            You’d finish out the day.

And even though our feet were criss-crossed,

And our eyes were bloodshot;

            Yours weren’t.

Don't You Dare

Don’t you dare.

Don’t you dare tell me I never cared about you.

Don’t you dare tell me that this is how it HAS to be.

Don’t you dare tell me that it doesn’t matter.

Don’t you dare tell me that you don’t know what you want.

Don’t you dare tell me I still don’t care.

Don’t you dare walk away and leave me crying in a hallway.

Don’t you dare tell me I have no control.

Don’t you dare tell me you dislike who I am.

Don’t you dare pretend like you don’t know how I feel.

Don’t you dare pretend like you don’t know me better than most.

Don’t you dare pretend like love’s not a two way street.

Don’t you dare tell me how I felt and how I feel.

Don’t you dare.

Don’t you dare tell me “I’ll be fine.”

Because

                I am not fine.

A Human Being

I am many things.

I have been called many things.

And I have been accused of being many more.

I am a man.

I am flawed.

I am often inqusitive. (sometimes confused)

I try to rationalize.

I am so often a masochist.

I fuck up. (sometimes big)

I try to be happy.

I care. (though I’ve been accused of not)

I love. (though I am told not to)

I am intelligent. (though often make dumb comments)

I make poor decisions.

I also make great decisions.

I am so many adjectives.

And I AM a human being.

And I need a drink.

2 Leagues Under the Sea

It’s ludicrous to think it wouldn’t.

History always repeats itself. Eventually.

Because you’re on this plateau.

This plateau below sea level.

Like a bowl.

And although you’ve been here once before, it’s different.

The things that were once shades of black and white are now too vibrant to look at.

And once you’re eyes adjust,

An Odyssey

I was once told a story.

About hot air balloons.

And crash landing kites.

No one else could tell the story like her.

(except maybe a rock star).

This story, listened to from an outsiders view,

Was ludicrous at best and full of fairly consistent hypocrisy.

Even as the story went on, the details continued to change.

As if they were being made up on the spot.

The sheer incredulousness of the story itself turned most people away.

I couldn’t stop listening.

It was like nothing I had heard before. Tasted. Touched.

I heard brilliant colors that made me ooooh and aaaahhh.

The taste was phenomenal, drinking the nectar like hummingbirds did.

And I could feel it. The weight of a clock, texture of a scarf doused in blues and grays.

I found them on my couch for weeks after.

            (unmistakably yours)

A reminder full of mixed emotions.

I couldn’t ignore it.

So without words;

I want to fly kites and crash land in hot air balloons.