but then again

but then again,
perhaps i'm wrong
and we are just me and
another person who doesn't give a shit.
my phantasies don't work
if i can't imagine you in them
but they're only phantasies
because you're not there.

No Fanfare Tonight

lying alone in the hallway
as amber light floats from a single dirty bulb
(but the fixture isn't terrible)
there's a reason to go and a place to be
but i can't move...
tomorrow is crawling ever closer
but i shouldn't let it drift away.

i had the urge to get loftier
and parade around some morals
meant to keep the emotional wellness high
but i'm not done soul-searching
and i have fewer answers than before.
so exit stage right, trumpets:
there'll be no fanfare tonight.

no, tonight i hear a distant trumpet and a bongo once and again
and again
once and again.
and the moon shines high above the world
and it's cold and inviting all at the same time
a lover who turns her cheek but turns her cheek,
her body curving into you
but her beautiful face, lips, eyes, BRAIN pull away.

she's not here:
in this world of stability and predictability.
there's no space for different in a world of same.
and maybe she needs excitement.
yes.
she does.

you can't truly claim her until you occupy her mind
but only as a cohabitant, and one with a smaller room at that!
but her thoughts will brush against yours sometimes
because a memory or mystery included you somehow.
you have to make her think
to make her yours.

were you to have this second option rather than the first
as the owner of the mind:
how content could you be with that arrangement, anyhow?
the good and bad from the mind without the excellent horseplay,
(oh, how she brags about her sexpertise!)
your deal is not ideal either.
surely you'll grow tired of the arrangement one day.

and what will she do when she loses your companionship?
who will she become without your light?
with nothing or no one to propel her forwards,
will she start sliding further back?
at what point will the realization come
that leads her to a tough decision?
how much you mean remains to be seen.

maybe tomorrow,
once these hours finish drifting away.

Gloria

...

Strange, then, that she grew suddenly more confident and sure-footed as she stepped over that intangible boundary in the night, a simple step taking her from reality to dream -- one simple step shifting one into the other. In this new state, she still resisted the rising sun progressing the gradient past her eyelids from dusky grey to something markedly warmer. She still unsuccessfully struggled against the barrage of tasks and responsibilities awaiting her in the dawn. The idyllic silence of slumber was slipping away and she could resist it no longer.

She began her waking sequence, arching her back into the warm, hard body encircling her small frame. A hardness responded in kind, answering the request with a firm "yes". Perhaps there could be a few moments spared before reality -- if that was truly what this was -- crashed in. Her stretch slid into gyrations and she slid her arm down ever further to investigate what needed no further confirmation.

unfulfilled

unfulfilled
tired of being empty
watching the tank drain
and doing nothing to refill it
i can't complain
when i do nothing but complain
i cannot move
if i do not move my feet
i can only blame the external things for so long
before their forces crush my frame
where am i
in this undefined mush

**HAIKU**

tomatoes

thanks for the produce.
the scarlet pulp
and tiny seeds
suggest growth and vitality
but it's all a farce, the whole fruit:
it's been torn from the vine.

Life of Hydration

life is not a babbling brook
or profluent river reaching for the sea;
it is more a waterfall,
splashing upon rocks
and wasting of itself
to drop to lower heights.
it is a rapid,
violently attacking
any who dare cross its path.
it's true:
there are short spans of tranquil waves
where the only ripples are made by
waterbugs on the surface
but nothing is so mutable as
the current of existence.

Audorable

A fast Audi
runs with the fervor of an antelope,
but not as the one chased --
the prey.
Nay, this one runs toward
inevitable death,
a sure catastrophe
at the end of the long, dark tunnel.

turtle of today

busy busy, always busy
running from point A to C.
what's an oreo without the creme?
or bookends on an empty shelf?
hyperopic eyes focus on the horizon,
never dropping to see the dashes on the road.
reminiscing's fun but regret's widespread
when we will life to take on lunar gravity
demanding it leap when it should crawl.
why can’t we be content with today?
must we always live one step ahead?
there's value in the quotidian,
truth in monotony.
unembellished breaths propel us forward
in ways hyperventilation never could.
put tomorrow’s rabbit out of your head, turtle of today.

Francis

His entrance à cheval suggested a certain familiarity with romance novels. Had he also donned a blonde wig and clutched a tub of butter-alternative, his beloved would have likely fled his overzealousness; but today love drew her forward.

Twelve suns would rise and fall before the mounted hopeless romantic would learn that his equine companion had, in that moment, usurped the heart of the only woman he would ever love.

yes

temptation you are
even if you have no desire to be desired
so you are the same.
your presence plagues me
at the same time that
your absence pains me.
how can i stop that
with no true origin?
you grew hydroponically
despite your lack of traditional nurturing
here you are.
do you know where here is?
i didn't designate a plot for your crop
but you're here all the same,
like a seed whose germination point
lies far from its parent stem.
what do i do now?
you've infiltrated my compound
without any intent to do so.
you've sowed discontent,
although i've never spread your seed.
if you're not involved
if you're not to blame
how can you be involved
how can i make YOU part of the equation
that only involves me + me.
my imagination takes me down many roads
and this time i tread yours
without your permission.
can i make myself turn away
or revert to the true course
or retrace my steps?
you are not part of this.
i am only attempting to enlarge fantasy
without realizing how irrelevant it is to reality.
sigh.

random flow

she stood in shadows like--
like a ghost at high noon.
falling invisible and rising in prestige.

he sat on a hilltop
(the sundial's position means little now)
and waited.

she would spin her wheels
SHE would grind her gears
in the mortal-and-pestle
where humanity is punished.
(or is it?)

when do i figure out where i'm going?
when will i remember where i've been?
this cyclical world that we cycle upon
has lots of pretty parks
and pretty parking lots.
why is sitting sill so much more pleasing to the eye?
(but is it?)

i need to succumb to these biological functions
necessity takes up so much of my time
is today for a purpose?
or does it mean nothing if i don't share?
nothingness: a cave of hidden potential
substance, an misguided misperception

yeah yeah yeah

In other news, I'm feeling pretty open minded right now.
WHY? You ask.
Because this isn't supposed to be poetry
but my truncated lines and unnecessary <br> coding suggests otherwise.

I feel more when my hand is connected to a pen
or a pencil, if just to start
before my consciousness has awakened
(before it begins to wane again)
What am I saying other than nonsense?
Who am I now but Myself?

Music and scents surround me
Taste evades my mind and tongue
You were here once
And still enrapture me now.
But only in the space of a second

I want passion and excitement to fuel my art
Is that as selfish as it sounds?
Maybe emotion is too abrasive for our love
Do I stop this tomfoolery
Or stop this pen?

Misters and Mistresses sauntering around:
Who are you to make me drop to the ground
Who are you to force me to my knees

**HAIKU**

Drink Now of the Deceased!

some say that death mars life
but life surely reciprocates this enmity.
as we wink into existence
we fault death for pain and misery,
blinding ourselves to the truth.

surely such large concepts are common
to matter and antimatter alike!
temporality does not observe the states of being
that we establish to bestow meaning to our days.
time passes: we live; we die.

we fabricate checkpoints to interrupt
the stretch of personal existence --
birth to maturity to matrimony to birth --
and with it another stretch of years
segmented into arbitrary units of time.

(astronauts' observations confirm
the calendar's dependence on orbits,
but they're of little import to
those of us relegated to lives
on these hunks of orbiting rock.)

but death is mankind's only landmark:
eras and dynasties divided with scarlet.
the hourglass runneth over with blood!
yesterday's carafe has been refilled
drink now of the deceased.

there is great wisdom in death.
(yet how inadequate the time afforded us
to peruse the funereal guidebooks!)
subsume their wisdom into your vessel,
enhancing its flavor with that already inside.

life is forever accompanied by death --
ignorance of this partnership marks a fool.
yet allowing death to shadow life marks an imbecile.
live well, die well
and breathe for the space between.

See-saw

no chains hold me here
but i appertain to you all the same.
by signing our names side-by-side,
we've both agreed
to share ourselves with one another.
you are my keeper and i, as yours,
plan to push you toward your dreams
(but not too hard)
and pull when i need you close
(but not so often you 're forever exiled from solitude).
a see-saw,
giving and taking through ups and downs,
i hope to share the work and the play
for all time.

matemáticas

i asked you once to cook for me
you probably don't remember
such a minor conversation
but i do.
and you did.
let's put significance where it doesn't belong
like a cheesy romance
and pretend it means something
when it's just sustenance
but isn't hope the same thing?
and isn't faith just confidence that things will be ok?
and they are.
we're not an entity;
we'd never have added up right.

besides, i've already used my plus-sign.
(and multiplication is imminent)

perhaps the division was necessary for a while
because now the shavings of graphite have blown away,
but i can't handle subtraction with you.

Revolution 179

when nature holds her breath
the skins upon the mast fall flaccid,
their tapestries' richness untold -
words withheld to punish
her unshared whispers.

Nothing given, nothing shared.

homicidal waves shore simple rafts
unprepared to leave an ordered existence,
unprepared to float away as driftwood.
how can one hold onto herself
without trunks beside to bestow meaning?

Mutability of form veils similitude of locomotion.

you left your oars in a boathouse on the mainland;
mine were lost along the way
along with my rebellious spirit.
scarlet flames fizzled as they fell overboard,
fiery fingers never fated to reach the Red blaze.

My revolution became intangible at 179 degrees.

i smuggled a glowing ember onto an imagined isle.
i cannot bring myself to extinguish its life.
it promises a future laden with violence and heartache,
whose progression i should halt with vigor
but must i discard the scraps of memory?

Cookie-cutter philosophy leaves the territory outside its borders unexplored.

were we to smash doughy remnants together
would they remember having been divided
and focus on differences?
or would they recognize their similarities
and acquiesce to homogeneity?

Rhetorical questions cultivate algebraic wastelands.

we stand on separate strips of land
divided by azure complications.
nature's lifeblood invigorates the division,
sharpening the taste of treachery.
i savor the wrongness.

Eleanor

Her soiled spoon rattles against ceramic emptiness. She mourns the loss of flavor the same way she will mourn him two days later when she allows herself to accept that he's gone.

She twirls her finger through the remnants of the meal and licks her finger clean in hopes that stimulating her tastebuds will numb her sense of shame. Shame for allowing herself to succumb to his charms, shame for accepting less than her due, shame for tolerating behavior she wouldn't have accepted from her teenage son. 

But all she can taste is his memory.

He isn't right for her; never was. Contrary to her own good sense, she'd put off clipping his vine -- instead inviting him to envelop her and blot out her sunlight. Carnal hungers sated, she slipped into a world where her needs outside the bedroom were irrelevant.

She had broken the one rule of one-night stands. But something about the way his fingers brushed against her neck made her dream of more. She told herself that she didn't mind his intrusion, but in chasing this one dream she had removed the possibility of any other.

She grabs a bottle of red wine, fills a glass halfway, and tries to see something other than emptiness.

addicted

why does my body hold you
when my mind named you an obstacle
before your hurdle was laid in my path?
i know you're unnecessary --
an expansion pack I don't need --
yet you still linger in my cells
(like a dormant pathogen)
after all this time.

 it's been a year almost
and your mystique still enchants me
and i hope without Hope's blessing
that my essence sleeps
in your subconscious too.
awakening when you least expect it
and impeding your momentum
when forward is the only option.

we hold each other stagnant;
by clinging to the hypothetical
we distance ourselves from the plausible.
our coloring sheets were never intended
to be more than black-and-white.
why do i cling to the possibility of nothingness
that "us" entails?
i'm addicted to you though i've never partaken.

hunger strikes

hunger's open mouth
devours all self control.
succumb to more cake.

*

enhance your days with
salt, pepper, garlic, thyme, sage.
settle not for bland.

*

closed eyes, open mouth --
there is joy in the unseen.
tastebuds, awaken!

Ostrich

Too afraid to stand and fight;
Too much pride to fly away.
Cowardice: immobilize
Egos lacking skill to play!
Games of conflict can’t be played
By those afraid to deal a hand.
Flightless birds avoid their call
Ostriching heads in the sand.

Pyknic

i fear my inactivity will result in a pyknic future self
a self who would rather indulge in calories and sedentary life
does this path begin with mental atrophy?
after graduation, the grey matter is rarely challenged
we get into "habits" of doing things
and employment is never varied enough
to prevent atrophy of the body and mind
and once the limbs are devoid of muscle
and the mind free of stimulation
it all becomes automatic
and we eat whatever is placed before us
i fear my adulthood is that of a robot
whose abilities are stripped of meaning
because change has no place in a rigid box
no longer a maze, this life of mine

before

is this the same as before?
the same torrential waterfall of heat and emotions?
nothing stopped me before --
i hopped on that horse and rode into a sunset that quickly rose to high noon.
i walked away from that duel back then, unconcerned with the outcome
but could it be that the bullet hit me and i've been bleeding ever since?
has my subconscious maneuvering to staunch the flow
led me down the very same path?

i don't want another shootout...

Pondering Yesterdays

i did a whole lot of nothing yesterday
cleaned my face and teeth
put on pajamas
set my mind to no uncompleted goals
so we sat
devoid of pretense
(aside from whatever we bring to the table naturally)
the morning and early afternoon passed
without incident
but the air we exhaled
was rich with meaning
what does it mean
that there's an invisible string
and it feels so natural
to behave unnaturally
who are you to me
i haven't decided

Doug

Twenty minutes into the exam, nature was screaming into Doug's face. A childhood full of terrestrial ferries between the pond in his backyard to the Great Lakes in his grandparents' had developed his ability to endure eight-hour stints between trickling streams, but the waterfall of caffeinated drinks from the previous night's cram session (not to mention the Writer's soppy sponge of metaphors) had stripped him of all restraint. The professor's irrefrangible policy against any interruption of testing sessions must be violated, else Noah's ark need be summoned to save the devout from the amber deluge.

Thirsty Darkness

She 

stood aloof

nothing stood in the way of her purpose.

buffeted by the cool winter breeze,

nothing stood but

She

had watched others fall to the whirr

or tumble into thirsty darkness

but she refused to let the world assign her pain.

Her pain was her own.

She

stands calmly, patiently awaiting tomorrow.

will it bring an end or another beginning?

what use in new predictions?

tomorrow we chase the yesterdays

we did not catch today. 

(again.)

She

will herald the end to nothingness

by giving in to it

and tumbling into thirsty darkness

as winter blows itself away

Pillow Talk

ease your tired mind:
i will erase your troubles
if you close your eyes.

*

counting sheep is hard
when the pillow under you
died six months ago.

mystery has no map

getting lost in the unknown is bittersweet:
the quest unfolding into deep oblivion,
its marvels expanding the mind
at the expense of momentum.
will i rise to the mystery
or delve into the dirt?

Grouse

do i grouse about work
because i hate it?
because i hate my coworkers?
because i hate my customers?
because i hate stagnation.
because i hate not living up to my potential
by accepting mediocrity.
i realize that most people are average
and to be a part of this crowd is no shame,
but i -- like the ginger mermaid --
want more for myself.
curiosity will not kill me
as it did the poor feline.
on the contrary, it keeps me alive.
keeps electricity surging through my nerves.
sameness and stability,
while good in ways,
are not satisfying.
i need to dare to risk failure
in order to truly succeed.
i must risk crashing to the ground
if i wish to soar.

Tonight

the chill outside pales
in comparison with the icebox of us.
a vacuum pulls you to me --
no, it's not gravity:
you won't stay forever.

but will you stay tonight?
will you stay tonight?

there's heat enough between us
to become arsonists --
just how notorious is up to you.
ashes, ashes
we all fall down.

but will we die tonight?
will we die tonight?

silence stretches across yawning crevices.
(how is it nothingness can echo so loud?)
your matter-of-fact demeanor
cuts me deeper
than we'd ever dreamed.

but will we speak again tonight?
will we speak again tonight?

Clone

duplicated self:

we do not share the same improprieties.

to ignore and set aside darker desires,

to bury discordant feelings

to disobey urges of the id:

these are my duties.

but these sanctions and prohibitions 

are not your own.

pursue your urgent urges

chase him down dark alleys

and bring him the light --

your light.

sate unsanctioned appetites

because no duties and responsibilities

hold you down.

darker, ever darker.

yes, i know this is no way to live

but i need to live vicariously,
then let you fade away.

not even the worst version of myself

could survive on darkness alone.

who's the darker one of us

if i'm content to let you kill yourself off?

but the truth is...

without the sanctions

without the broken commitments

you would be happy and free

to pursue your acceptable urges

and make him your own.

and i would be forever barred

from breaking and disobeying

and pursuing my own darkness.

you would keep me from myself

so you will remain the impossibility you are.

i refuse to give you life

because it would mean death to my fantasies

and i cannot see them wane.

so i am content to let my mind travel through possibilities

and dark alleys.

my imagined self allows my true self to thrive.

Callie

Her soiled spoon rattles against ceramic emptiness. She mourns the loss of flavor the same way she will mourn him two days later when she allows herself to accept that he's gone.
She twirls her finger through the remnants of the meal and licks her finger clean in hopes that stimulating her tastebuds will numb her sense of shame. Shame for allowing herself to succumb to his charms, shame for accepting less than her due, shame for tolerating behavior she wouldn't have accepted from her teenage son. 
But all she can taste is his memory.
He isn't right for her; never was. Contrary to her own good sense, she'd put off clipping his vine -- instead inviting him to envelop her and blot out her sunlight. Carnal hungers sated, she slipped into a world where her needs outside the bedroom were irrelevant.
She had broken the one rule of one-night stands. But something about the way his fingers brushed against her neck made her dream of more. She told herself that she didn't mind his intrusion, but in chasing this one dream she had removed the possibility of any other.

She grabs a bottle of red wine, fills a glass halfway, and tries to see something other than emptiness.