hearing out

he's in love
with his wife;
he's in love
with his life
and i get by, i do,
on five hours a day
hearing out
his play-by-play
of countless minutia.
he offers me sorries
i won't ever take;
what romance exists
for a listener to make,
when she's glowing
and living vicarious?
what could be a dream
needs fuel to depart
from disenchanted chords
and believe again, again.

audience

if my mind and my mouth could connect to convey concise thought, half of the confusion would be extinguished. communication, in its myriad of forms, is the vehicle of enticement and intrigue.
and, quite often, i don't make sense.
an artist begins with an image, a concept, a feeling in their mind: to apply, to transfer onto a surface to share with others is perhaps the most difficult exchange of all.
i would rather share, despite. it's on.

line this pan with crisco

well, it happened again. i was found out, discovered, pointed out... dancing. by the token black hispanic from wisconsin. you know you spend too much time at work when your coworkers are still on your mind. the requisite condescending authority figure (who shall remain nameless) was encouraged by a superior to "update" his choice of satellite feed station.
motown, beach music? no, no, no.
'80s.
i've heard bobby brown's ghostbusters song every single day. too hot to handle, too cold to hold. they're called the ghostbustas and they in control.
so the black hispanic found me, new edition style'n it in the juniors department. he's got fake bling. i'm through.

blended into the sea

the atmosphere builds

layer intertwined with layer;

humidity mutes all color

as the path clears

into the dunes,

patchy as old men

shrouded in many summers.

sunlight stings all skin

exposed and covered,

devouring in its warmth.

the battle is easily won,

as make-up melts

and gives way to beaming.

where had i been,

living apart from this place-

hiding behind mountains,

cloistered in colleges,

pining for who knows what.

here lies the magniticism

before which i stand,

bare and simple,

in veritable humility

of my first love, the sea.

oh, i can feel the ocean

breaking me, breaking

the way it has always wanted.

it blends me into itself

as paint derives color

from life and substance,

permeating my resolve

to be bound to unrest.

sunlight, flashing on the crests

dyes my hair the color of sand;

my eyes are round orbs

of sea glass.

the ocean shreds my modesty,

pulling all pain away

until we are static,

and endlessly curling along.

i am filled and released

before the next wave

licks the sandbar.

i am home,

and i shall not leave again.

tuna in a current

get in the rhythm like the rest,
half-eaten by life and extinguished
from feeling; sleeping in a nest
of cushions made by someone
who couldn't afford them.
two-ply and egyptian cotton
woven to regal comfort, sold
to your chubby fist
you entitled son of a bitch.

dip your pen in ink, and write
down everything in your soul.
be sure you tell no one
that you're not even whole:
no one is this side of the sea,
and even folks who've got religion
chase a honey bee.
easily you're latent in truth,
awash in all the latest lies
sipping flavored coffees
grown by the people you despise.
oh yeah, it's a secret rather
than a language barrier.

get called out, tuna in a current.
be told for what you truly are,
and sample freedom upon
that simple reflection of who
you are, and who you could be.
rhythm of life, stoic distain,
being them out of ordinary
confidence enables nothing:
be of they, or be of thee.

purple eyeshadow

cereal went soggy
and the strawberries fermented,
waiting for you.
the sounds of life,
for the first time since waking,
echoed from a hollow box.
tried to find that pendant,
symbol of another place,
in memory and then
in with the jewelry.
the cheap metal has
all but weathered away,
eaten by a dark drawer it rests in,
save one day each year.
there are no black shirts in the closet,
nothing without lace
or plunging neckline
to be seen at the 9 to 5.
and so you put on purple,
and coat your eyes
the same pacifying hue,
so passive and earthen,
nearer the knot of your stomach
than the attractive expression
you'd hoped to wear.

poem-- curiousity pending

pathos, ethos, egos.
edible emotionality,
loss of appetite.
silent phone,
curiousity pending.
bridget jones in the mirror.
memories dilate,
and create new endings.
you're great;
don't change that dress
or the mess in your head.
you're climaxing on amazing,
but who will be here
for the second act?
she says to me,
"he's a simple guy;
he wouldn't know
what to do with you.
he's an idiot to pass
up an opportunity with greatness."
but i think his definition
of great lead him over there.
didn't mean get it misconstrued
or be told in many ways
that independence and stubborness
will garner backhanded compliments.

under the bridge with dick and harry

there is an ease with which a person can fall into becoming impatient with someone whose memory is on slow-churn.
the older a person becomes, the greater the store of memories and information within their mind. the shelves are taller, deeper, and usually not as organized as we'd like the rest of our lives to be.
what i'm discovering is that words are escaping my conversations, grammatical errors are repeatedly present in my everyday verbatim, and the cable tv is washing over me after long days work.
the solution? i'm going under the bridge with dick and harry. yes, i am going to carry an unabridged dictionary around. they are a bit dense, but think of the bicep workout just from holding that bastard.

aftermath of a tropical storm

the sun has been swallowed
into the drift of days ending
and evenings pallorless dusk.
the rain, which sporatically
blessed the land for hours,
clings in the faintness
of a darker patch of gray.
humidity is like the mist
birthed of a waterfall,
and everyone is coated
in its envelopping lacquer.

Miss Construed

here's the latest concept for a serial of stories about the single life.
what i've absolutely learned is that it ain't bad at all. the nicest part is being able to write off mistakes with the phrase "chalk it up to experience." just try not to make the same mistake twice!
i'll try not to be carrie bradshaw, or sarah malaughlin for that matter, and speak of life as an insightful comedian. my character will fall under the pseudonym "miss construed."
she thinks one thing, becomes convinced of it, but she's got a few things out of context and the whole of the matter gets misconstrued.
currently miss construed is trying to believe there is life outside of work.

progression to the here and now

i made up my mind to be miserable,
racing against life in an old cliche.
i followed habits to survive,
loathing life and wishing
to see everyone turn away.
i made up my mind to be miserable,
settling not for the present,
and its treasures in plain view.
i hiked to the top of a mountain,
saw the clouds below me,
covering all that i knew at the time.

i see everything that i missed;
it plays in memories i am humbled
to have at all.
and now i am here, where
consciousness began, apart from
the earliest enchantments of appalachia.
i am thinking of the past year.
the late summer sun is resting low:
before you can cup a hand over your eyes
its warmth becomes a courier to another time.
i am there again, walking home from class.
we've just said our goodbyes, and
i am constructing another poem in the air.
was it to do with the weather,
that tree in the park transitioning to october,
or the darkness of my apartment?
no photograph i took,
or language relayed could illustrate
that which my heart spoke.

i stayed away;
i feigned disinterest;
i took you off my contact list.
it was a resignation you caught in my voice.
you told me "i'm lonely too,"
and as in everything you said or did,
you were the person i never expected.

five months' sojourn besotted by re-education
reconstructed my shattered mind
through an objective listener
led me across the frozen pond
i'd tempered in bitter analysis.
my words to you at the close
of this firestorm were only apologies.
an apology in a mailbox
to someone loved and bonded
is perhaps a frank request.
though it would take more life,
more relations with several unworthies,
there is now worth in my tone:
there is merit in this ado.

you gave me your book
but i did not read it;
you gave me your friendship
but i did not want to need it.
i was the fragility on the line,
always falling in love,
chasing cliches and fancies.
but they all of them faided,
for truly, inconspicuously
none of them were you.