kiss kiss

motzart

Would there be a motzart if
austria had antidepressants,
and should I wipe my memory
if I had the chance
not of the memories, but of the
emotional component.
Why when depressed do I draw
so much better, and why when
depressed does my mind
ruminate over and over on details
that I write and why when
not depressed do I just
function and not care
about drawing or writing?
Or do I?
How much is my own myth making,
my own sense of my own
Motzart?

the blind guy is reading a book,
and sometimes he turns his face towards me,
as if he could see me.
Maybe he can.

He says that to be born again,
you must die first.
How long until I am able to die,
or rather kill,
these feelings that still cling to me,
like hard, sharp barnacles?
I can not pry them from me
or torch them or freeze them.
they stay attached, simple and
eternal, shells that need not
a living being to stay on my rocks.
All the same, I forget they are there
or maybe they are not there,
and for a time, they can not cut my
feet or my hands.
It is so much easier for so many others.
They just find someone else,
and within months have moved on.
Easy swimmers who float with the tide,
from one wave to the next,
one beach to the next.
Today, the barnacles were back,
as I fantasized a scenario of ten years ahead
in which he returns, and I said,
I have two kids now. I am married.
But we had an affair anyway.

100

today we are 100 shams
100 poems
some good, some bad
how does it feel?
we were depressed,
we got better.
we loved, we lost.
we have not loved since,
though perhaps we pine a bit
we are still seeking, shams,
still hoping,
still looking,
still trying to make sense of the world.
I'm glad I have you, Shams, so glad.

heat

it takes so much to hold
my shoulder in this
crunched place.
And when I finally move it,
heat.
The heat.
I wear this emotion on my body.
And I break this emotion by
opening my body.

I loved the artist,
not the man,
and I just can't seem to stop
loving the artist
and ignoring the man.

in my head is a constant scream sometimes
that is so loud and so negative
I want to stick a plunger in one ear,
and push it down or pull it out.
Life is not fair, life is not fair, life is not fair.

comfort

I take so much comfort
from the fact
that I know
you always come back
to the same place.
Even if we don't have
that kind of relationship.

solitude

how can i explain this,
to you.
This is what
I'm thinking,
thinking
about the long lashed boy
and his chasm of need
so deep that I still haven't
heard the coin I dropped in.
He's alright, you know.
He's alright.
So what if he gets mad
when I take the local
and he's on the express.
Not my problem.
Or is it?
I don't really care,
and that's where I
have to answer to my conscience.
Remedy this, it says.

But I still dream of him
and I tell myself,
even in those dreams,
you're not allowed here
anymore,
we don't have that kind
of relationship
anymore.
I guess those energies
go somewhere though.

I am so glad I have my divinity.
We are so small, our concerns
so small, so not truly of ourselves,
manifestations of that divinity,
acting out divine things
through energy concentrations.
To me it makes perfect sense.

We sat politely, talking as people
do on first dates,
as this has been one in a string
of about ten or twenty.
I'm so weary and bored of the task
of finding love.
If only it would find me first, and
put to rest the labor.
Feeling nothing on date number one,
and not excited,
enough to go on date number two
but I must.
It takes me many weeks to feel a pull.
I like artists best.
Sitting and waiting, oh did I feel
a pull for
The man with the giant beard
and the book
at the next table and I wanted to
say to him,
good sir, let us leave together and
find stars
and fill our pockets with stars and
dine at night
and sing songs to the wind and the
wolves and the
crickets.
But my first date came and the good
sir he left.
I kept his smile in my pocket all
night, and
pulled it out in my dreams.

twitter poem of the day

there's little I wouldn't catch or keep, penning my heart up like a sheep
wandering to greener fields lest there is a greater yield

free at last, free at last

your last refuge in my life is in my dreams.
only there are you a physical presence,
who cradles me, and then disappears.
We start in a tent, in a park,
or we start on a train,
and all is bliss, all is love.
Then you leave or disappear while
I am occupied with something else.
I look for you until I wake, look
for clues to understand.
The story has told itself in anagrams
and symbols,
myth and picture.
So I lived my life for two months,
studying the same facts
with a ferocious obsessiveness
that bordered on madness.
Or was madness.
No pressure of my mind would
loosen my tight grasp.
I suffered.
Oh how I suffered.
But now, my waking life is mine
again,
and I am not sure how I
managed to fit so much of you
into my day, into my very breath.

You are gone at last, I am free at last.

More than anything,
I would like us
to watch the stars.

a serious love affair

he's looking at me with these big doe eyes,
batting his lashes.
I'm thinking, he's like a girl.
He's in love with me.
Lately, seems like everyone
is in love with me.
Except, of course.
As I sit, book in hand,
I try to look him in the eye,
give him the kind of
treatment I would like.
He's not so bad.
He's just not.
And I'm not sure if I
weren't so haunted
I would like him.
There's got to be some kind
of route to bring us
back, I'm thinking.
No matter how many variations,
we all get to the same outcome.

my love for you

my love for you
is big and grand,
and ocean wide.
I can drown all your
sorrows in my sea,
and cradle you
when you cry
tears that don't fall.
Water can't get wet.
You can walk in from
the shore, toes, shins, knees,
until at last you are past
the depth where you can
stand.
My love is bigger than you,
silly man, silly silly man.
Float with your arms stretched
wide, vulnerable to
sun, to wind, to birds.
I will never drop you.

the universe

is listening to my

twitter poem of the day

alone in the car, silently screaming,
troubled by troubles without any meaning