Promise Ring (04/03/2012)
The book is a desperate friend.
a product of intoxicating this clumsy, broken vase.
The sad coals, smoldering
in the hearth of this old man's body, weighed down like lead
against the tides of rationalization.
Nothing drinks colder than a detached, ironist's laugh.
Our mind, together, remembers the heart.
So it pays its tithes,
and "doth" revives,
the stumbling image after.
Like Jack, meeting Jill, catching himself frozen in the mirror,
living in shame, over filthy hands and hairy palms.
Late night lotion misadventures, secrets, and quiet strained loneliness.
'Loved you a long time, Jill.'
He choked back the lump in his throat, never really full
Starved to death on social normality, embargo'd by the arm's length safety net.
Yes, the hearth
The place of what we need and what we want
making incomplete combustion, and through those coals we prod.
Slaves to our addiction to imagination.
Filling our cups, toppling tall,
with syrup for fiction's furnace.
So here we are, funeral day, the unwilling paul bearer's
of God's unmarked graves.
We stand as one,
in blissful mid-day delirium,
needing love but offering none.
We toss, and we turn,
shaking under the weight of it all.
Can you blame me? I'm incomplete. We're incomplete, expecting everything.
Sleeping by ourselves, in cold beds
with empty stomachs and full heads.
But sleep still finds us like we don't remember its face.
Sleep, the old friend.
Sleep, the rapist.
Why won't you love me, dreams?
And you, nightmares?
Why am I cursed with this disease of a peaceful, dreamless sleep, if only four hours a night?
Reluctant, I'm awake
Already on the train, surrounded by the day
when I belong to the night. I'm alien;
vain as human concrete, and proud as a first kiss.
It's like I died again, on an operating table with you.
It's like we were both a June evening in the rain, with a name.
It's like a mirror with a name you hate
but eyes you need.
that god doesn't know anything
and I don't need sleep to make sense.