Mystyque, lost in your clutches, beckoning to me, the longing, the everlasting

made lightly of your touch, and smirked it off,
but always found myself back at the foot of the piano, laying it out, far out the dress, the long dress, of mystyque, lay of me, layer of layers, clawing at the absence of time, your jaw dropping exposure, endure, ensure the masses that there isn’t a scene here anymore
butterly love lasting sadness, jiving mystery, beauty, your rival, shock her in the eye, shuck the corns from her toes, a mildew the droplets and form the new ring, sounding the array of fixtures, fingerling crossings, in the middle of a field attempting to shoot a scene, not going as planned, never to be what is expceted, or perhaps never better, a clamor, a vicious madness a stamour, mystyque, your forces know where we all must go, to bold to shy away when the opportunity emerges, as a ballet, as a wedding rehearsal, know your place, your gallant white sondress, your dawning, singing random tunes,

drawn into the dampening doom, drugged out and done, doing what needs to be done, fickle and free with the time, you surely know the direction, you see the deed, which rhyme?  your wellspring, your sinking fixture at the top of the ceiling, dripping off the balcony and onto onlookers, where they keep their deepest lockets, locked up in secrecy, breath in my direction!

Boymanthing, a silly and serious melody

from vanity to wisdom, one asks the question, are they one in the same thing?

punishment?  cruelty?  are they necessary?

a boy learning to walk on the stage, in front of everyone, that is where he belongs

but doesn’t know how to get there, the distance, so far away

but in his recent history.

he learns to let go of the notion that he needs to sell his soul for beauty

and begins to live his life, fully

I started writing a book
and I have a title and everything

and I wrote the first few chapters


do all writers go through this, where they sit and wonder...

do I need to live more?

not heartbreak
not solitude
not hurt
left those things behind

forgiven a few things, others come back in a rush and haunt me
read a few more things, they make me weaker, while they help pass the time
passing the time is one of the best things

developing a gut, a love of food

drinking too much, but romancing just the same, even better

not a character, a person, walks down the street, notices the restaurants, wants to sit at the nicer ones

wants to be a court reporter, a teacher, maybe

sits on the couch and watches sitcoms

cooks pasta, cooks breakfast

tells the iCloud to go away, remind me later

late nights rarer, comfortable with lazy body

grown out the beard, again

not heartbreak
not solitude
not hurt

somebody

so what is boring?  what is normal?  what is comfort?


it’s fine, just fine

and the poetry is fine, too

and reading is easier

content living, not too out of balance
giant sand bags either ends of the balance beam
weight, some sort of a weight, that I remember so well, that I focused on in the theatre, that I sang about and stomped my feet about, and received applause

Some of that energy is gone, and it can never be had back, some of that madness, some of that desire to ******, to die, to set everything on fire

gone now, too much to lose, to content, to full from the last meal, looking forward to more ***, another poem, perhaps

but then, then it was scribbles, it wasn’t even poetry!  It was pure madness, directly from the source, it was brilliant, I thought of myself as brilliant, that’s for **** sure.

and people would ask “what were you writing?” and I don’t remember what I would answer, but I was too embarrassed to say something poignant or ambitious or cool

Content living, when the living room is balanced
Synchronized, the carpet, the flower, the plant next to the couch, everything handy, the beer in the fridge, all fine, fine.  And I have plans to be a teacher, and that also is fine, and I might audition for things, and that is fine too, and Ilyse is beautiful, and I love my mother.

Normal, a normal man

so what is it now?  A wisdom?  probably that, yes

Hustle and bustle of underground merry plaza showcase, the underbelly, the underlife, the true essence of the show going on at 8, men speaking rhythmically, eating quickly, with waste boxes, recyclables, the news is digestible, a man forages for answers in his phone, digging with his thumbs, and another reaches through the speaker to try to hear the close, the head anchored up, the scarf hanging at the direction towards the sun, oh the glamorous walls and the anxious souls, oh the marble staircase and the jansport backpack, more cleaning services than surfaces, less times more money, more money, less time, time is like money, it freezes and then it flows, what was the expression again?  Only the smell of coffee is lucrative, only the stench of ***** diapers, babies, in a place like this, where murmers are murmurs and eat isn't required but fufilled then joked about over digestion, a proper coffee break, he is of an ash tray the men gossip, not directly, but imply, stick to facts but hierarchies fill in like water into a ravine, never obscene, silent struggles to an invisible top held by Rockefeller who is no longer in this world, his spirit keeps some sort of hope driving noses into the pizza lunches, and the limitless contemplaions, the tough desicions, men around coffee are women amidst vultures, who has a higher grasp, whose the one getting cursed, overdone, overpowered, the cards turning in silence, literally in glances, a polite face turns to a disappointed hatred in seconds, perfect, like a diamond

Oh sweet nothing
Set to the skies overhead
A rebel with a song playing, the hips moving
Hurry to get it all down, but right now there's no immediate threat, so
Ring a bell and make the kids across the street forget their skateboard woes for awhile, and I'll sit here ***** with flip flops on my feet
The traffic rolling by every five minutes
The shining leaves
Oh sweet nothing, you're being ****** good to me