The Midway.

I don’t pretend to know,

which dagger of mine to throw,

you know, I’ve built up an arsenal,

the ubiquitous, carnivorous carnival;

 

the sound of a broke-down calliope,

worn through that last shred of sanity,

drawn to the worst magnetically,

out of the huge crowd of humanity;

 

but before you sink your fangs into,

such a back-stabber’s dream-come-true,

help me decide which blade best suits you,

to wear forever as defensive scar wounds.

What Else?

I think you nailed it without meaning to,

how you said you lived somewhere arctic,

and that I would absolutely hate it there…

…what else?…

I think you spilled the truth over the brim,

how you put the blame on my poetry,

for inspiring your meaningless expressions…

…what else?…

I think you must have known from the beginning,

how you singled me out with your destruction,

because I seem so strong and hard to break…

…what else?…

I think it was a drill that you run regularly,

how the floodgates opened and flooded the course,

with a new mental illness and old childhood issues…

…what else?…

I think you must feel happy with yourself,

for being a weak wolf in a hokey sheep costume,

at least, I hope you are.

 

 

Threadbare.

In the weaving of the fabric,

that has been sewn by magic,

stitched by an unseen thread,

that strings from my heart,

to the thoughts in your head.

has gradually wound,

its way tightly around,

Any word written down,

infused into shades of dark red,

It’s a thing that’s profound,

that will never be dead,

It’s the basic compound,

On which forever’s been found,

And forever wildly bounds,

in hurried steps ahead,

of this weaving thread,

you bet we’ll chase it down,

it’s a distant sense,

in the past tense,

of being led around,

See the liters that I’ve bled,

See the patchwork on my neck,

It’s alright”, somehow,

that’s what they said,

You’ve been mended now”,

as I’m sifting through debris,

you showed up to stare at me,

as I rummage through the wreck,

not mockingly,

but longingly,

distinguished and correct,

your mind spun silently,

trying to throw a line to me,

to get me to connect,

and the threaded weave,

spun invisibly,

and I think you know the rest.

 

Padlocked.

You thought I wasn’t listening,

that your sentiment was lost on me,

you convinced yourself eventually,

that an evil lingered, baring teeth…

Didn’t you write mind blowing poetry?

And used for your muse, a snapshot of me?

Then my mind was confused immediately,

the flip to the switch that turns you on to me…

In no way did I anticipate,

To be smitten by you, for Chrissake,

to be bitten into, til my body shakes,

and left alone in an expanding space…

It’s a cosmically powered vacuum,

sucking the poetry away from we, two,

stealing the essence left that I cling to,

revealing rebellious dissent in high volume…

until the shine of the sun again forces ahead,

the steps of my feet through your head,

the lines in my cheeks as you blush me dark red,

your dreams are ever padlocked in a box under my bed.

Cinder Blocks.

I want sit at the hearth of your manhood,

and stoke the fire to dangerous heights,

stir at its white-hot cinder blocks,

fuel the embers of its dark corners,

you burn like fire,

in my heart – in my mind,

in my skin – a temperature rise,

emblazoned, emboldened,

a singe at the touch that’s so very right

beheld by the highest of the high,

as well as the beggars of the night,

you’re made up of the stuff,

that speaks directly to my concubine,

not a nano-second passes by me,

without warmth of a cosmic heat,

like a fire burning steadily,

slurping out my poetry,

like a vampire of pure lovability,

like a conflagration of flames,

dirty words and silly pet names,

I want to make you see,

tell me, do you see?

Is it “you”, or “me”, or is it “we”?

 

 

 

 

Blow.

I know which way,

wind tends to blow…

From day to day,

It changes, I know…

clever word play,

I’m taking notes…

I’m on the belay,

but missing the rope…

I see the mask,

beneath the mists…

A deep overcast,

A darkened glimpse…

of shadows amassed,

between our kiss…

questions unasked,

blissful in my ignorance…

my faith has already burned,

I don’t say any desperate prayers…

Certain things can’t be unlearned,

certain feelings can’t be spared…

have the tides already turned?

and you’ve left me sitting here?

I know, typically,

how the story goes…

it ends quite abruptly,

a chop to the throat…

heartrendingly,

and POOF! I’m a ghost…

just a shiny memory,

missing most of my nose.

 

 

 

 

 

Dumbly Mused.

My mind reeled sinfully as my gaze found its lazy way upon,

your eyes drilled into me through the haze of shady recognition,

how the shadowy cobwebs of distant times,

have smeared many edges and blurred out the lines,

but the instant I saw you,

and knew you saw me too,

the moment I bowed my head in gratitude,

it seemed a flash of lightning,

something jarring and striking,

took my knees from under me,

so I dumbly mused hungrily,

on distant things resurfacing in plenitude,

an emotionally messy,

however, very sexy catastrophe,

was the spark of fire ignited by memory,

was the bolt of energy flashing between,

in its own way defining the physical being,

in that instant recollection,

of that distant connection,

when our bodies intertwined nakedly,

and our times were confined to history,

while our eyes were still quite blind,

and we couldn’t hear a thing,

the sense of touch,

was left to us,

the warm rush of skin in flannel sheets,

and in that moment,

so long later down the line,

our eyes got to touch one last time,

I touched yours,

yours touched mine,

and you remembered me.