Two parts.


October 28, 2011


Stony, oily, hedging, mind bending.

I wished more people used me like you do.


I could face nonchalance

with armed, guarded hands,

faced forward swords and

blunt, backfiring guns.


I could wear gloves like nails to skin,

and hide my lined face from the sun,

I could grow puffy and tired,

un-alive and piss-ed-ly wired.

I could make a pretty photograph,

if you took the time, to carve and bisect.


(Though I'm not sure I look better, in two.)


The inflections in the tone of your voice,

are like molasses, racing down the bottom of sandpaper tracks,

and I mistake myself for air again;

I forgot I was here.

Is this the part I speak?

Is this the part I back away,

and practise those mindful sprinting skills?


Stonily, oily, well-practised, exacted.

I don't try very hard,

but maybe you do, and maybe they do, too.

I don't.

Am I tired of supposing so?

I suppose.

But you don't make

the fences look any shorter, either.


(Still bars, like molten lava, that never cools.)


Still a statue, that's somehow found it's got muscles

and limbs; and tendons to pull those bones with,

and ligaments, to hold that fragile figure upwards,

and flesh, and blood, a heart, in only the most physical way.

Do you know that you know me,

in only the most theoretical way?


Those mind doctors, in only the most literal existence,

would tell me I have issues,

and list them out, with exacted proficiency,

like pre-programmed robots; old computers.

Prescribe to me simple solutions,

ruses and mental cures, for these mental sicknesses.

But this sickness is the human condition.


I won't whisper my little secrets anymore.

My voice is shaky, and my thoughts are raw.