to someone whose name begins with, well, never mind. I guess I really shouldn't indulge the self-pity.
Something Close to Yesterday
the sun is such a dilatory
rays as definitions for what we feel,
(what we do not tell).
( I )
there are so many apologies
thrown at the sky,
fondly anticipated by
spring because the clouds
tend to trap emotions like flies like genius writers like the world will never end;
and around the bend
who knows what's there -
a pair of murky eyes, cool stare,
I want to step off the metal and feel the mud.
then there's the
part in the play when you say you love me,
all while sipping cognac like pop stars like me like where's the meaning in life?
there is none, you go on
another sip, another day -
stalling makes things worse,
makes the apologies harder to accept,
makes the oxygen harder to inhale.
the air is studded with inanity.
( II )
you suffer from phobias of the mind;
you say it's better than suffering from phobias of the
( III )
my sentences are smothered,
by the sky, the water, the dusty carpets,
all while you look on and
play that jangly guitar,
not bothering to finish my sentences
like you used to.
( IV )
there is nothing keeping me grounded,
I am either above it all,
detached, unaware, removed
(rooted from the middle of the road and tossed to one side),
or I am below the facts,
caught, stifled, depleted,
(the lake slows time down and I am spent - I am tired).
it's a struggle not to commiserate
when you tell me the same.
( V )
white sheets just worsen the situation -
no grime to lick with a pinched expression,
not worthy of spring.
not ugly like
our story needs to be rewritten
so that it becomes pretty again,
not like hair or the sun or french wheatfields,
but the kind of golden
helen of troy could only dream about,
laced through with buttermilk and
creamy throaty laughs.
but no one likes to rewrite history.
( VI )
there is nothing more to say between us
(and hello to a new tomorrow).