Posts for June 9, 2024 (page 7)

i’m going to escape behind my eyelids now

shroud myself in my brain cloud, solipsistic 

good glowing blue night baby burnt brown 

girl      all my thoughts micro plastics,

cool greywater streaming out in subliminal 

bliss, smoggy hands intertwined branches 

dangling from a vapid rose brown stone body

empty brick weathering away at all conceivable 

scene setting moments, i roll to the back of my 

bottom soil cinnamon coffee corneas & wait

for the world to turn cyclical & bare around 

my lilac spine                    i’m ten miles tucked

into my cranium         dancing away to the pace 

of my sultry & vexatious thoughts             

     a mad woman 

curdling in angst, licked full of dreaded nerves 

bolted to her body in murky shivers

        lukewarm & sweaty                    

reality reeling before me but i’m taking it all in 

at the speed of silence & creeping into my 

comfortable conscious to stay

East of where I sleep is the rising sun
    reaching to wake me

The patter of soft rain outpaces the light
    petrichor rises from below

Climbing through the front window
    fills the air with earthly scent

I can only hope that it’s you
    disguised as what we both crave

four days of bonding between families–
reprises of the first waltz fuel the reception
the couple’s poise and abandon
ripple through every dancer
and catch the room on fire
long goodbyes after the last song

Is Anything Clean in my Drawers?

I get up from my desk to leave
happen to look down and see dirt
on my white with a painted sea scene shirt
the I-thought-was-clean shirt
I put on first thing this morning shirt
the inherited-from-my-mother shirt
the purchased-in-Cape-Cod shirt
the Where on Earth? tagged shirt

I wonder whose dirt is on the shirt

I take off the dirty white shirt
put in the laundry basket
say good morning to Mother
put on another shirt     a pink shirt
the mastiff-drinking-wine design shirt
the Wine takes the bitch out of me shirt
ink-stains all over the back shirt
the a-pen-got-into-the-washer-and-dryer shirt
that pen splotched lots of shirts 

I wonder if I have any clean shirts

I slide the
too little used books
back in their place
on the shelf.  I never got to
have the adventures
I wanted.  And now
if I ask if they can
come out and play,
no answer.

The truth?

It chilled me
The soft lady’s voice
Beauty sans
humanity
reading me
in my car
Helpless without
training wheels
& words lose 
their love 
when run together

A zombie read 
A lifeless read
less of a poem
more like a screed

Passion dissected
conforming to
fashion 

& my title
“Paterson Conversation” 
hanging on the
bluetooth screen
a musical note
at its side
lovely like a pendant 
lit up like a lie 

My poem stripped
to the bone
Alone

How she (it?)
found it
spoke it 
& me never
requesting it
I don’t know

I don’t know
if the future
is for manufactured
voices alone

& this I fear

that when AI
recites a poem
of what it does 
it doesn’t care

A toxic drink ceremoniously sipped
sun rays glistens through the frosted glass
making gleaming every morning
yet, tasting remains so bitter storming

Tainting what comes next in line
no matter how perfect the day,
sweet the sound, lovely the setting
poison’s purpose is never forgetting

The drink rides slowly over lips
turning all to ash while on its way
with just a few swallows
it rips hope from the day

Fears arrive autonomously
lurking in the day repeatedly
as smirking sirens in my ears trilling
do damage, without quite killing

Shouting reasons for regret
for certain pledges not quite met
overall, my inexactitude of being
over what it was I was not seeing

And such provokes this death of joy
a dark liquid swamp of gooey guilt
wrapped in a secret that I must keep
where history remains incomplete

I had to borrow this one from a previous iteration
from myself mind you  no stealing in my house  only steeling
too busy today cleaning  clearing  rearranging  making rooms  changes  visitors  hopes  dreams  making room for it all without know what room I am making it
for
I am game though  always  again  still
for whatever comes  and keen beyond a reasonable day
to delight in just the  well  now
shall we begin?

“Wreck?”
“Bad?”
“How bad?”
“Dead?”

Now,

Atop my desk,
Trapped on film
In an orange-capped pose
“Mr. Ag.” at 31
Sits brother–
So silent, so still.