tonight i am
a tourist
in your bedroom
my party dress
is like hawaiian shirts and khakis
compared to the t-shirts and jeans
littering your carpet
like fallen brown leaves
during autumn
i sit on your duvet
because you said
wait here-
i’ll be back in a minute
but it’s been ten
so my eyes wander
like a wayward wren
your books are not mine
there’s no poetry
there are pictures of memories
on your wall
none of them me
after tonight, that’s all i’ll be-
a note is on your board:
i love you
was it her?
it’s hard to see
oh wait, it was me
it’s bent and folded
like my insides
the writing is fading
like the makeup on my face
what’s taking you so long?
maybe you didn’t want me
and all this time i was wrong
and you’re hiding in the bathroom
waiting for me to take the hint
and leave
of course that’s it
i can’t believe
i thought you
actually wanted me
i’m so silly
of course
i do not belong here
my purse looks wrong
laying next to your guitar
but i can fix that quick
i will simply
thank you
for the ride
nurse my wounded pride
then i’ll be gone
and you will forget me
before long
so i get up
and the door opens
and you’re there
and you smile
and you touch my shoulder
and you say
i’m sorry
i took so long
i wanted to find
the perfect record
with the perfect song
you know that one
about a sunset in waterloo?
it always reminds me of you
but i’m here now
and i’m so silly
this whole night
is a mess
like my lipstick
on your lips
oh this anxiety i detest
your clothes are funny
compared to my dress
your books are not mine
besides the one on the end
(my brilliant friend)
the memories on the wall
are not of me
but they could be
i do not belong here
that is for sure
but then again-
all these things
were chosen by you
and i was too
so maybe i do belong
after all

Shackled to the very depths,
precariously situated
on the very precipice
of the end

where I can lasso the edges
and bring them back together
whipping the world back
some disseminatory yo-yo
excreting silky rut
rocks that bumble up
from hell and turn to lush
green,
belts of world for sand and dust
to which we have been gleaned.

I could hear them calling deep inside
that colossal of Rhodinia
an ancient land that will never be heard
except for the left
over play dough
left in the sand
Hidden under ice
I will dig until my fingers burn

The animals all taste like chicken
we hide beneath the rocks
fallen angels
left to run for our lives
constantly
constantly
constantly
constantly
constantly

and­ then
Flash
We are together again
the chickens cluck
and I fetch them a water pail
to wash away the fire in their gut
time to eat
time to grow
time to move
time to know

And the Himilayas dance into the sky
and florida's mosquita nets are dry
and the ice
and the creatures
given to the earth
move ever onward
and then
us.


But what does it mean?
I am but dust
and elemental stuff
and atomic configurations
on a tectonic bluff
unknown to the geometry
except for what I see
opaque eyeball
in its cage rolling
Searching for something in the static of dreams
in between the here and then
the now and when
the constant end
that drags the rocks
like slaves
towards constant
never
end.

Said the sea to the shore “you don’t love me anymore
All the good times seem like long forgotten chores
While sunshine ***** my waters making rain
I’ll visit other shores where I have lain
Make trees and grass and flowers grow again
Make harmony with clouds the sky I lend
Yet your sandy walk I will forever tend
Though you forget it’s time itself I bend”

Said the shore to the sea “you truly take me wrong
We will touch throughout eternity in song
Though moonlight is the mate for which I long
We’ll touch your tides like members of your tong
Make swirling currents beautiful and strong
For time is but the mask where we belong”

Said the sea to the shore “take comfort in my lust
For I turn even iron and steel to rust
Like the oceans of night’s sky I will remain
To touch your soul with yet a new refrain
That we may yet be lovers once again”

Parallel thoughts like parallel lines carry similar veins of reasoning in almost identical directions.  Through this though separate we find unity.

Breakfast crunching cornflakes,
The sound of Roman legions
Marching down Appian Way.
Just sounds, word sounds,
The Dictionary of all sounds.

An empty polystyrene cup,
And loose change offered,
For many timed re-mortgaged soul.
Elbows on the altar,
Of a dried coffee ringed universe.

Helpless in supplication,
Bargaining with the Devil,
For three immortal lines,
Or three immortal words,
Or even two?
And No.