Tom Waited

[OLD]

The sky above the trees.
I'm peeking, remembering to breathe.
Ladykiller left just in time.
I want the words I write
about you
to be disgusting.


I won't care.
Keep me occupied,
so I don't need to care.
Waking, making plans
every moment best spent
together.
Contain my interest.
Sick of dry throats
making me feel nobody
can love me again.
They haven't yet.

Of Mouth

Fishing, minds set to
phrase.
It was always about the words.
Praising phases:
flawed even when free.
(My apologies Jenny)
Love questions
are rhetorical given the facts.

Pen Pricks

Finding out too late some tallies never fade.
And oh so suddenly,
it’s all about me.
And just maybe, lately,
you’re the reason my
eyelids aren’t clumsy.
Are we at repressed
confessions yet?
Oh, I’ll bite my tongue then,
apologize for premature
idealization.
I stumbled in, lumbering
heavy conscience in tow.
But I’ll exit ever so lightly,
empty after everything.
Ian had it right the whole time,
eight says it all.

The Avenger

Interest piqued, since declined
but stockpiling rejections seem to define
every word my empty lungs
find, breathe, or mutter
and among my mind’s clutter
rejection is just another four letter word.
Now I see that you’ve been
leaving your name at the door
since day one.

Never Have I Ever

sleeves rolled up
only question:
puddle or pool.
I’m collecting; collected.
Not the right sentiment at all.

Craig's List

Stiff drink,
you made me at numb.
I thought I loved you.
Missed connections.

Woe

Bite tongue tightly, unnecessary
but polite. She knows.
Seating arrangements
not close enough for comfort.
One kiss captured, stored
for future recollection
and hopeful repetition.
After professions of
damn near obsession
came the solitary six.
Isolation, cut outs.
Same page, different books
no longer known territory.
Always left to wonder.
Fear in numbers, or
in this case a single letter.
Post script attempt,
proved moot at best.
I’m glad you aren’t as perceptive
as you seem to think, or at least
polite enough to spare me.
You know.

Shilly-Shally

Her forearms, half extended,
lying again.
Blatant indifference creaked
through her thighs to her tendon
toes. Pointed.

Weak.

Think in sevens.
Clearly, levels intact.
7:
Thou Shall Pass
(the salt).
Dropping anchors,
our eyes met
through the
memory shelves
collective disarray
of lost plurals.
Weak.

Elegance

(Read into this:

synonym.)


Blazes from bridges.
Oh, burn baby burn.
Hope this is
more than just sacrilegious.
Breathing fumes
full gasps; gulping
bitter soot
never tasted so sweet.
A send off not worth
shit.
Where the fuck is north?
Glad we can finally agree.
Unsettled scores
out of the peripheral.
Who cares?

Shun

Pathways like lines,
ours yet to intersect.
A question.
Oh it seems our
parallel conclusions
exclude any inclusion
of future participle
provisions.
Cut short.

Stainless

Frames like, drifting,
barely brushing outlines.
Tunnel, maybe bridge.
Regardless,
past tense trusts.
Hold taut.

Mark It Up

Sliding up my sleeves, but
no avail when knee deep
in practicality.
Sinking my teeth into
hips and
critical arbitrary contradictions.
Oh, she already knows.
< myself >
I’m just weak; I’m ready.
Succumb to any and every escape:
need-based offender.
< /myself >
Oh, but the categories
fit so perfectly.
I played my part to the:
The Vile Little Monster,
little violin in hand.
< important >
Shoulder shrugs.
< /important >