She asks me
She asks me how I did it,
rid myself of it
Separated him from me like the
milky membrane of raw chicken breast…
I am flattered that she looks to me,
that I’ve been tossed in every flavor of storm to
survive and spit its rainbows at each end.
“It takes time.”
Though not always in that order;
there’s no order in heartache,
just questions in tongues we don’t speak,
in eyes we can’t
see ourselves in anymore.
Yes, time takes it
and loves it till it breaks,
drops shards of it in our paths
to remind us as we try to tiptoe
through the day
unnoticed
or at least unmutilated.
But I can’t tell it like it is!
I am still it
and it takes me
back to the place where that picture was taken
back to that frame that somewhere lost its picture
It is that picture and It is probably in that box you never open It is open and
IT TAKES.
I am still It and It Takes Me.
She asks me
how
But I’m undone,
postdated and exposed,
still gripping his old shirt.
I write
I write.
Call it a stigma,
the real writers do
were they to say it more or less eloquently.
I feel that I can’t compete…
too many perfect words written,
appropriately sung against silence.
Even the cliches have a sacred chicness
that “status quo” sounds like it has.
That my words can’t compare…well,
I just hope that they exert enough energy
to cause notice,
a nod, perhaps a smile.
Were they sticky enough to stay and dance
fitfully in someone’s thoughts…
That might be refreshing.
I can’t keep being so human
if I don’t have a moment to
rip & scream and just Be Uncomfortable.
Not debate the words that simmer inside me or analyze
Sacrifice my what-would-ideal-me-do
I WOULD be free
I could be expressive
I want to feel that rage
if not beautiful, it is HONEST…
and the capacity to despise does not
fill rooms that could house love;
there are kitchens and closets in buildings of stories
waiting for the space to bleed.
no passion will go unposessed, at least within my pages.
The Angel
Subtract the distance and age does not matter
With two guns to our hearts
It is the words in autumn that save us from rage
I can not be anymore truthful
And this can not be more than what it is
Late nights, no sleep, and my wings are bleeding.
While one great light has developed a spot of darkness
The immaculate darkness has found one piece of light
You crawl, I smile, and you know.
Is it better to be a fallen angel
Or a messenger who has never fallen.
Will we crawl out of the darkness to be that light?
Or will we just be that moment?
