Hmmmm

I don't hate you for what you've done--you're an animal, a beaten cur who knows nothing of kindness. How could I expect you to trust and be trustworthy when you've never walked on a rug that wasn't pulled from beneath your feet. I love you just as you are, but I think I might better appreciate the art that is you if I observed from afar--maybe I'll sign up for a tour of your life, a jungle tour, complete with a well armed guide and a porter with a stitch kit for broken hearts....

the flower

How come I never saw you as loud, as a disturbance in the garden?
I guess some flowers just want to be held. They don't see the line stretching through the meadow. and a hand, selfish as it may be, is still a hand, and the flower enjoys its touch, and can become lost in that spell.
But now that you're away.
I realize how empty the garden was with you there.
The line waiting it's turn to hold me was pushed back, and then, it was scattered by the amount of room you took.
There was a frightening moment, right after you'd left, when the garden was empty. When the loud heaviness of your presence was gone.
I was alone, wavering in a soft breeze of isolation.
but then, when the others knew that you werent returning, they came back.
a gentle paitent crowd of childlike admirers stood round, each taking their turn to hold me and to enjoy what they'd missed.

No name for this...

My room has turned upside down. The bed below me is now the eternity of a black-space sky and I have become a storm hanging beneath its indifference to the earth. Bold lightening flashes of anger spring from my limbs and roll heaving and burning towards her distance. If she could die, let her. Show that errant cunt that I control existence and flesh.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
A thousand jagged bolts tear from my eyes--and then,
as quickly as it began,
it ends.
The cheap plastic fan at the foot of my bed scatters my pain, and the wind tattered silk streamer of violence laps the room once and then settles down, an old man under the blankets.
I'm a desert now, waiting to explode again.
A blank canvas of unforgiveness that refuses to be touched by God's brush.

.

up

You warm the bed with your life, and I travel slowly over a heavy-eyed path to awakening. The television is the first thing I hear. Too loud for morning voices talking nonsense about suicides and 90 pounds gone. It's softer in the bed, and your voice remains quiet. My mind travels towards clear--a slow journey it doesn't look forward to, and i don't blame it, i also fight reality. The air conditioner, set below freezing, gives the room that sea foam chill that you like, a chill that pushes us closer together in a bed that a thousand have slept in before us, a thousand sleepy heads detesting rational thought. I pull the covers over my shoulder and roll in your direction. The turn somehow shaking and dispelling the night. Here is where I usually sit up and study you,push your hair back and make sure you're still mine, but not today, and not since last week or a hundred tomorrows, because you're gone, and your not coming back. I'm up now, and the clarity of my loss and your death is back on the menu.

attachment?

I reach for her, my daughter, flesh of my flesh, our lives intertwined since her first breath, and although I touch her skin and feel her sweet hands I can't connect. I've never been able to feel more than the flesh. A thin transparent sheet--a shroud really, is shrink wrapped around my soul. There is nothing that has ever been able to penetrate it, not even her.

A very cliche post.

If I said the window in my hotel room, which by the way looks out over a busy freeway, was dirty, would you find that cliche? What if I said my heart was broken--2000 miles away from home and without my love? Yes, you probably would find both of those lines worn and without flavor, so instead, I'm going to tell you that the window is without streak or smear. the freeway is a grey masters line slashed across the earths pride, and of a heart i have none, just a head filled with sad dreary thoughts that were transfered to a young boy who had no defense against the pumped in negativity and loss of those around him.

A very cliche post.

If I said the window in my hotel room, which by the way looks out over a busy freeway, was dirty, would you find that cliche? What if I said my heart was broken--2000 miles away from home and without my love? I think that maybe i'll tell you that the window is without streak or smear. the freeway is a grey masters line slashed across the earth, and my heart, of a heart i have none, just a head filled with thoughts transfered to a young boy who had no defense against the pumped in negativity and loss of those around him.