Poetry

Rain cannot be watched tearing

(tearing)

upwards past buildings and grey

metal clouds. Against wills, wickness

only be-falls you, coating throats

like cough syrup; sticky sweet and full

of sentiment.

Pull back from ledges and find your base

(base)

affect influenced by purely platonic

incidents of no consequence. What deed

inspires your insipid, biting

remarks towards the unarmored

throats of strangers?

These tangled threads

twist my hands until

I cannot feel.

I read my Austen

and Akhmatova

and imagine what will –

could have been.

And I silently smile.

I imagine what can be

and what I will.

And I smile,

a little louder now.

I’m looking out

and can only see the lights

glowing in the night,

the bent heads of the many

Imagine

that river

untouchable,

soft, cool,

unreachable,

that breeze felt but never held,

never captured.

Unthinkable.

Imagine

a place

unseeable

and you

incapable

of finding the steps

untraceable.

Unnoticeable.

Imagine

a dream

unattainable

a wish

unalterable.

I swore it was just one of those in-between gigs -

a nice fiscal pick-me-up between my English B.A

and my philosophy post-grad.

But there's no demand for nattering Nietzscheans, it seems,

so here I remain,

making martyrs of the brats whose hall passes I deny,

and confiscating gum from the ones smarter than me.

In their skinny jeans and gangsta pants

those kids are brewing the next sexual revolution.

Threading needles is easy with one eye

shut. Thin boys who shed clothing in

morning light and expect a warm breast need not

knock, for this house is empty come noon-time.

It would be easy to dribble down the stair-

case, coffee in hand and sweep the cold

floor, but I have finished with your

messes. Wipe your boots or do not

enter.

Still, the door jam sits too high.

No thread can tie the beams

down. Older women have told me:

You know those moments

when you wish

that something had been

said. You know

those times

when you could have

taken another step

from beaten

road to a softer,

gentler touch

of untrodden grass

beneath

My hands

may try to feel

what was,

but clichés thwart me.

I like to dream

of moments

when we fit –

alliteration and rhyme –

I just want you to know
that I found your text
message,
Locked and saved
from December 24th
2010.

I was the only person who knew.

I hope you realize
what you have done.

That night
the belligerence and chaos
were too far along their courses
to be controlled.

Your familiar face hid
something unfamiliar.
I was curious
to find what lay behind
your baited smile.

No one saw you sweep me away.
No eye saw your long fingernails scratch
the door handle open
-pull me inside.

Four years past you ask
if I’ve found forgiveness inside
my proclaimed quiet.

You left bruises on my days.
You ripped light away
as the night does to the innocent
glow of evening.

Trust to dust-
begs to demands
-smiles to screams.

Look at them stepping
in straight lines, staying
along certain paths, ignoring
the moon, blind to the stars.

They try to find their spots
to sit -pre-designated areas to plant
their feet, fingers branching for
color coded buttons.
Footprint on footprint.
-running toward the fire.

They’re asking questions,
with the intent of receiving
selectively formed sentences
holding their non-existent meanings.

I want to say,
“I can’t help you.”

They think they belong somewhere.
They suppress thoughts
believing they are
the only ones.

And I realize I am nothing but skin and bone
as our friends cluster and cry in craze.
Will anything ever be set in stone?

I now work and live. I live alone
in a new reality –set ablaze,
and I realize I am nothing but skin and bone.

You pulled the trigger; I begged you “no!”
You left me in your ever-spiraling maze.
Will anything ever be set in stone?

Wide rimmed bottles -you drank alone.
Your vision must have been clouded -fogged in a daze.
hadn’t you realized you were but skin and bone?

Now, all around me, noises drone
as my mind searches and strays,