Take all the very many
Things about you
That I adore.
into your service,
Load them into a rifle
And aim it at my core.
Take aim and take care.
we buried the others’ words
within our souls.
and like seeds they sprouted
saplings of who we would become.
i’ve forgotten you
in all the ways i know how;
except the ones that matter.
we met in my dreams the other night
long after the last time we spoke.
you were a young girl, and
it was years before we were to meet.
it was strange, but i got to tell you
everything that you deserved to know.
how despite the feelings
i had for you died with a whimper,
i don’t regret a moment of what i felt.
and that you set a high bar
for everyone who came after.
It’s not with incessant frequency
that her fragrance fills my senses.
In truth, sometimes many months may pass,
during which the vicissitudes of this corporeal form
call into question the value of such receptors.
Memory quickly fades.
But then, when it is least expected,
she trickles back into my consciousness.
Making all other highs feel like
In spite of it all, and
yet because of it all
I am found wanting.
to the woman who taught me unconditional love,
despite our best intentions –
there was a moment.
before i gave myself up to you,
when i released the mortal chains
which held me to myself.
stripped myself bare and bared these teeth…
…bungee jumping seems an a propos metaphor
for the tumble i knew awaited me.
made a vow..
before it was ever to you, it was to myself
that this was something i would see to the end
whether i was the ship
or the iceberg
i would sink
come what may.
and so what can i do?
a vow is a vow.
Occasionally, I am reminded of
the anachrony of inspiration.
The vaguely humorous plight of
never knowing what will move me
I recall lovers out of order,
process trauma on its own schedule,
bleed ink in undulating stretches
of drought and reckless abandon.
It’s bingo night.
And the fix is far from in.
A volunteer casually rolls the cage
ready to call the rounds as they fall.
The currents suffer us no sympathies.
In mere moments of innocent neglect
the steady waters turn our course
to their capricious will.
North stars be damned.
I swear –
I could make it wherever
these best laid plans intended,
if it weren’t for this incessant drift.
I tend to better associate
with souls who wear
their sins on their sleeves.
Not hidden in the folds of their hearts,
nor presented in metered phrase,
but written in muddled stains –
the remnants of tears and struggle,
through waves of examination, ingrained
into the very threads of their being.
to live is to experience
to experience is to hurt
to hurt is to know
to know is to understand
to understand is to appreciate
to appreciate is to forgive
to forgive is to mend
to mend is to, at long last –
find some measure of peace.