i spoke with the sun
about a certain someone
the conversation was brief
and all the while i spun
he who sees from all angles
and burns bunned hair in tangles
he confirmed what i already knew
that memory of hatred strangles
from there i retired home
and configured a tired poem
(one for her and one for myself)
and ran my hair through a comb
a mirror plagiarized my face
and i arrived in a new space
i saw love in a human being
and i felt it in her embrace
this is how it feels to win
it’s clay, mayweather, tyson
it’s wanting something and getting it
fat kings in robes bow
i sing the globe now
it’s the right turn on lucky st.
it’s every cheesy ending
it’s every heartstring mending
for once it’s there
the dunce in prayer
a fawn to care
it’s trouble sleeping at night
once dreams have moved
from one bed to another
the hibernation’s over
a writer paid in clovers
a driver paves his motor
it’s over
it’s a cool hellish prelude
to another warm embrace
i save face with a taste
it’s a dead star with handlebars
enjoying his reruns
loving his loved ones
this is how it feels to be on top
to stop your sobbing with a dusty mop
it’s another musty tome at home
it’s just another love poem
sometimes when it’s quiet
i wonder how much i meant to you
and when i see your smiling face
i shrug and realise i already knew
closed tomes haunt the dreams of the recluse
how the unknown taunts the hermit’s schemes
the conflicting notions in his head call a truce
as the oceans of his bed tear about his seams
he seems, drowning, to lament at long last
all that which he never sounded in the past
toward unknown extremes gaze his eyes glassed
high beams blaze his white flag at half-mast
another one for the books my friend
another love alone
i’ve carried on for far too long
this alleged heavy stone
and i hear it: “on and on and on”
i take it blow by blow
an accidental tragedy
how it moved us all
i’ve taken to life on the sea, my friend
too calm ain’t calm at all
we live and die in misery
love’s not love at all
on the bow awaits my god, at last
we’ll rise ‘till we are one
for the rain i could not find my way
i iced the horizon sun
the tide’s coming in and i need you
my one regret: i never learnt to swim
she closed the book, placed it on the table, and, finally, decided to walk through the door. she, being marie, formerly mary, knew precisely her purpose in the tiresome world.
unlocked and unsecure, the door, as it was, appeared, at once, in marie’s sweet mind. azure, with golden, unimportant details, the door found itself being swung open with unbelievable force. it was an unfamiliar feeling, this hunger and wanting; it fueled itself and became ceaseless in its sweep.
on the other side was jack, formerly johnboy, clad in chaps and dark shades. understandingly, yes, damn near too understandingly, jack ran to embrace marie. in another life, perhaps, the two were one.
“what’s troubling you, baby blue?” whispered jack, gently, into marie’s ear.
“we’re born to die, jack; born to grow old and then die, focusing, here and there, on the boiler-plate in between,” said marie, in her deep, brooding lament.
jack held her, believing it was what he did best.
marie smelled of perfume although she did not look it. she was very simply dressed, wearing naught but her favourite summer dress and her mother’s handbag.
“it’s not that simple,” said jack, loosening his grip. “nothing ever is.”
“i brought something for you.”
marie reached into her purse and fumbled around for a few moments.
“well, i — it’s gone… i had this book, and…”
marie broke down. she fell to her knees and began to weep. jack collapsed simultaneously, catching a glimpse of the beautiful door as he descended.
“what a marvelous, marvelous door!” said jack, awestruck. “i’ll be.”
marie glanced behind her. the door had shrunken slightly, but remained otherwise unchanged.
“incredible,” remarked jack, starting towards the door. he reached for it and opened it slowly.
inside he found a black table, an empty coatrack and a single light, stuck to the ceiling, seemingly, with little more than scotch tape.
atop the table was a book. it was leather-bound and appeared to contain at least eight hundred pages. on its front cover, it read, embossed in golden print: the bible.
“this? this was the book you meant to give to me?” asked jack, slightly puzzled. “i’m no christian, marie. you know that.”
“open it,” was all marie said in return.
jack approached the table one step at a time, with the utmost caution. he stretched out his trembling fingers to touch the holy book and opened it carefully.
jack stared. it was hollowed out. inside was a single key, azure in colour, with golden frills. jack lifted it to get a closer look, and, with it, taped loosely to the rear, came a small, greying piece of paper, thin as could be. it read:
“search the scriptures; for in them ye think
ye have eternal life: and they are they which
testify of me” (john 5:39).
jack glanced around and noticed that marie had vanished. he ran to the door to find that it had been locked.
jack tried the key. it didn’t budge.
he removed the key, placed it on the table, and, finally, decided that he had been wrong all along, and that, now, he had the rest of his short life to contemplate where, exactly, he went astray.
hide away from the things you love the most,
shy friend; be not afraid to hold the sun.
sail the outskirts of my heart, coast to coast,
until there is not two, but only one.
i will open up if you want to know,
and i will steal the shade from ‘neath the trees.
no farmed fields i would not, with you, watch grow;
my dear friend, all good love will come in threes.
loneliness should never be an illness,
for a heart as lovely and wondrous as yours.
impossible, sometimes, is happiness,
wading in a shallow pool on all fours.
stare in sheer amazement at the skies,
as if all life could live simply with lies.
out to lunch
with a friend
two lovers
of food and
one box of
cheese on tomato.
fifteen minutes,
fifteen pounds;
one slice left.
if i take that
last piece,
i will be at the
pizza shop for
two minutes
too
long
and
i will
be late coming
home and i will
stumble with the
stick shift in
the dark and my
stomach will ache
and i will lose
control and crash.
i will emerge from the
wreckage limbless and
brain damaged and
it will be so
cold that i
won’t be able to
feel my fingers.
i will try to stumble
along and i will slip
into a puddle of
nuclear waste
and i will shrink
and no one will
be able to find me
and i will die
alone and
small
and glowing
green.
i’ll decide instead to
bag the slice
for later.
shades of grey
empty pockets full of thoughts
of the day’s events and
of events to come
a hat to match an overcoat
eveningwear underneath
hair combed tie tied
pose by the shrubs
be sure not to smile
