The way the air hung over our heads,
its distinctive pungency enveloping everything.
On the stoop, the last of last years snow.
Is your scent trail buried there,
under the layers from months ago?
That floral aromatic reminiscent of coconut
and freshly washed hair?
As time rolls on so too does the memory reel,
seeking to fill the void and distance
between our tattered hearts.
How then will we come to find us
so many months ahead, when you've left
so many things behind?
I'll keep your bedside warm and survive
somehow, the ticking seconds, like 83 long years
without feeling you near...
03.27.13
The forgotten flowers.
The wind travelling through
your onyx hair.
The way your hands slide
on the glass,
heat competing,
poised like dark pastels,
when you're feeling this way.
We pause.
We take a moment,
to look out of bounds
into the night sky,
or into the explosion
of blinding white;
the wintryness,
the trees blotted out.
And the dreams,
oh, how I long to be there,
in the warm palm of your hand,
or perched on your shoulder
whispering inside your ear,
telling stories about
The feeling of being home.
What is the unexpected nature
of such things?
The utter convulsion:
a twisted knot of matted thoughts.
Returning a
on the periphery
i can see the body of the wind.
i can see the hesitation
as it moves over the crevasse.
the space between
the minutes separating
the decision to test flight;
to launch oneself,
off the edge.
what is the sound?
the one growing louder?
the impertinent thundering
of fists or drums? or
some other great calling,
building
and building
and building
towards the obvious
anticlimactic climax?
it's a ruse really,
the way we played
our short roles so briefly.
it was: tossing in the hat
too early or trying too hard
to make something happen
that was never likely to take
place.
yet we took our spots.
waited for t
For: Jon Sheard
In the music something became so clear.
Through the hoarse voices a coarse reality
was manifested. And despite the darkness
through the tranquility and ease of movement
a feeling: the briefest respite from
the evening cool led to the experience of a
lifetime. When we were lifted into the sky
and silhouettes began competing for their
fifteen-minutes of fame you were running
to get the job done. And you did it so well.
For so many years. It will now feel so awkward
as the gaping hole left could never ever hope
to be filled again.
041612
the birds are chirping but i don't recognize their voices at 5 pm in the afternoon.
what a strange thing to feel but everything now is entirely unfamiliar.
drifting in and out of my subconscious i begin to hear everything that is not there.
do the words rolling off of not uncommon tongues now become foreign?
does the pysche once considered intact and normal become maleable and stretched?
the perception of recent events; like the sun rising and falling for instance, becomes
abnormal in nature like the guiding of the clock throughout a day. what is the meaning
anyway, of 24 hours? seven days? or one year?
04.30.12
at the end,
all that is left is the feeling.
when you've spent the last minutes waiting,
when the last set of doors finally open
and you're winding your way through lowlit hallways
rushing towards the ending you only wish you could avoid,
all that is left is the feeling.
it's that set of dreams and
that set of
half-concocted theories
about how it all could work out.
how you wish you could walk down narrow
brightly lit streets late at night
and sit on benches and
live inside the moment.
hold your breath.
just one moment longer.
don't let go of it.
hold onto the feeling.
05.22.12