Combustion

Crazy kids, canoodling,
by a fire no less.
the sparks of the flames paralleling the sparks igniting their new-found romance.
realistically, not a chance in heaven or that firey pit below the earth’s long-hollowed core this pair of Hollister-clad hoodlems will even remember this night happened.
Pity, too, because the glow on their faces was enough to lug and tug my stunted romantic notions from the old joints that refused to dance.

Untitled (as of yet) and oh, this isn’t good yet

It’s September, on the 6th
And I’m here, with you
On a blanket.

White and checkered, with little black
Pieces of Pepper…dancing
Just kidding, ants…patrolling the corners.

Our backs rock like the waves
We’ve seen at your cottage…
That time we were supposed to be…asleep?

When I look to the sky, I catch myselt
Blushing, you know?
Not that you’d mind.

The burnt orange of the fire
catches my attention…
Pulling me…away

Before I get up, I take one
Look at the checkered haven,
Floating on a sea of green.

Can you…do you…
Know how to look past
Reality and see faith?

Your blue eyes stare
At me. You piece of
Summer so unchanged.

Propel me into my future.
Chase me there.
Force me to believe that as the symphonic structures rush by,
they will not be missed.
Breathe new life into this head riddled with “old ways”.
Count to 10, and here we go…

A panoramic view of a spaceship slideshow
A melodic melancholy.
A beat poet on the sidewalk,
Twisting my life into meter and rhyme.

We’re all just lovers and fighters,
Winners and losers and breadwinners.
Ha, aren’t we all…

Performers. Dancing a dance,
To a tune we only think we choose for ourselves.

The world’s horrors personified by his slumped shoulders, the old man carried his arms as if they contained an uncalculated heaviness, a weight brought on by the culmination of his time spent at Jimmy’s Bar on 12th and Tickle’s Deli on Third. His once pressed white dress shirt had seen the ‘good old days’, implying that his days had once been good. His black pants, a bit too long, a bit too baggy, and a bit faded, hung loosely around his waist,a rubbing reminder of all the empty calories and his ever-increasing lose of apetite. Only this old man’s red tie shone brilliantly, plucked off a rack at the Sal Val just yesterday and not yet exposed to the elements of cigarette smoke, spilled drinks, and sweat. He paraded down State Street, every now and then glancing through dirty windows to speculate about the people within. Looking up and catching the eye of a young woman at a counter, he widened his mouth in a stagnate, faltering grin. She returned his attempt with hesitation, starting at ‘Do I know You?’ and stopping at ‘Have a good day.’ He recognized her lack of enthusiasm, probably brought on by the capitalism pervading the drugstore. Sighing, he resumed his silent shuffle, not bothering to turn his head away from the ground. Noticing the cracked, gummy concrete, he began to sing a mournful melody he called ‘Galina’. As dwellers of the downtown looked on, the old man performed a slapshoe routine on the corner of 10th and State. His roaming eyes, now shut to the world, wrestled with the idea of calling out the ‘fakers’ and the ‘hypocrites’, but in the end, the dance was what mattered. Who cares about the fictious, he thought to himself? All I need is another cigarette. The light blinked from red to green to yellow and the old man slowly turned, breathing in the lake air and the smell of the exhaust representative of life in America. The land of the brave? Huh. That’s a good one, the old man yelled into the wind as he stepped across the street, ignoring the fingers and the car horns. Gradually, he made his way to that spot on 12th, where his fairy tale dreams alighted every night at 10, sometimes even 9. Pulling his baggage up to his stool, he ordered his usual and focused on the clock gently documenting the sliding of time. Eventually, time would fade and events wouldn’t matter so much and that woman’s smile would no longer cause him pain. He layed his head on the glossy wooden surface and wished he could carry a toon. “Galina….” he crooned. “Where have you gone, where have you been? I’ve been right here wishing…wishin I could see you again…” Like a scene from a movie, Galina walks right in…but is it her? The old man digs for the buried treasure that is his reading glasses but by the time he has thrown them on his face, she’s seen enough of Jimmy’s to know she’ll never be back. The old man expected it, but is still saddened, crying out to no one in particular, ‘I have been here all along.’ Tears of wild frustration pool in his eyes and are released, only to fall down his cheek, forming a reflection of the man he has suddenly become on the counter. “If only…” he thinks. ‘If only.’

In the absolute middle of an absolute gray November day, my frigid fingers interlock with yours. I gradually bring my eyes to your face, pausing to stare at the scarf you bought just two days ago…it really does complete you. All bundled up, your face is tensed to the wind, eyes blinking rapidly, flipping away the falling snow. Your eyelashes laden with droplets, are barely open. Though the chilly atmosphere makes me shiver, it gives me an excuse to cling to you with an intensity I thought I had lost. Breaking our icicle fingers apart, you place my hand in your pocket and your arm around my waist, guiding me over more than just ice on the sidewalk.

Eventually, we reach the lake. I’m actually sad to see the gray water, reflecting the gray sky, and as unmoving as the dolphin statue that graces its shore. It’s funny to think of the lake…the expanse of water…changing its form occasionally, but never changing its actual being. Kind of like me, I think. How many will you clasp hands with, and share moments of wonder, before you cease to change shape? How many snows will you see before they stay the same?

You take off that hat to tossle your hair. Playfully putting the hat on my head, you grin through the snow as I shove it over my ears to keep in the heat. It’s a promise, this hat is. A token of your faith in me and my faith in us. I pull the knitted garmet over my eyes and close them, wishing the snow to be the same when I open them. 3…2…1…My red wool world expands to not just a gray, but an off-white, sky blue dazzle. That’s the way it should be….right??

Suddenly, we’re laughing…kicking our feet over the liquid ground and letting go of our hopes for miracles. We reach towards each other, my purple mittens and your black gloves maintaining individual colors, but not shapes. Twisting and turning, tickling and teasing, we test the waters, daring each other to take a step.

Step. I’m still nervous, fidgeting with my cap, adjusting my head to face away from the wind. When I turn around, there you are, lying on the unpenetrable concrete, stretching your arms like an angel, not caring about leaving an impression. When I stand, you follow suit, dusting my peacoat with those gloves. My fingers interlock with yours and if they stay that way…well, ok.

be here

waiting is the hardest part.
sitting and thinking and waiting for your life to start
wind blowin, pushing your thoughts away…
checking that away message 20 times a day.
hoping to read a clue of some far away feeling.
im here and im praying….
for us, but more for me.
to be the girl you thought i was but i just couldn’t see

The line between the very real and the fantasy is a thin one,
a chasm chasing a lighting bolt scar on the ground.
Mascara painted eyes skimming the surface of rouge stained hills.
I turn, pause in the tumult, a piece of dust on a cd
skidding through the music.
Painted faces like clowns morph frantically into goulish horrors of nightmares.
No pauses, no skips, just gallons and gallons of candy apple red veneer
shimmering everyone.
Auroral brilliancy at its finest.
Belief emits from every open heart, flitting through the cosmic atmosphere
as fast as a hummingbird with eagle wings.
He turns, a mobile on strings, a puppet going through the motions of an uninspired life,
Twisting emotions like his arms, slowly pressing each shoulder forward,
stretching his lies and fears.
Raising my head, I spy a single tear, a lamentation against this so-called circus.
Mascarade! I scream, my word outpouring to the world.
Clowns swivel in their places, close their eyes, and fall away.
Is this the end?
My friend stops the silence with a look that could silence kings.
On my knees, I beg for my macrocosom, but he just slips away…

Sun beam Yellows

Sometimes I find myself staring at a blank canvas resisting the urge to fill the void with color. Aquas, tangerines, sun-beam yellows, black cherries, splotches of eye-popping jaw dropping reflections of light. Just for you. Someone has to reach out and close the gaps with happiness. I decided a long time ago I would be your own personal painter. I prepared- testing my palate, mixing to create shades.

Your life was already shaded. Jaded and cracked at the corners, peeling layer by layer, like an onion, me crying more and more as the pieces fell into crevices I couldn’t bend into. magnum opus – you weren’t. But, I thought I could sculpt you, chisel away at the rough patches and add mud to fill the missing parts.

No one can create you, except for you. I pray for the painter I used to know, the one I know you can be.

Bliss. Ah…those were the days the days my world was comprised of marigold-yellow sunshine and shimmery-glimmery rainbows. The days when I could get a bath without feeling guilty about the environment and run into my mom’s open arms, dripping and slipping all over the place. The towel used to fit all the way around me showing no 4-year-old skin. She’d walk me into my room, my very own living space, so I could put on my favorite pink dress, the one she bought me that I used to wear all the time. Memories. Swirling and mingling with my dreams and like a first date, I never know how they are going to end up.

I shiver silently now, much too old for my mom to wrap her arms around me after a shower. And that old towel…doesn’t quite fit me like it used to. Instead of slipping on that pink dress with the unicorn I slip into my old flannels. HE bought me these. And pretty much everything else I own. He doesn’t let me run into his arms when I’m dripping.

Sleeves

Sleeves tattered and torn, my heart battered and worn,
an old Def Leopard song humming its own tune in the background…
Comfort on a fall evening, late, past my bed time for sure
My thoughts waft back to that night when you last wore the shirt I’m wearing today.
We sat together gazing at the stars and wondering how in the world we got this far
and Together. That was the strangest part of it all.
But now, no. No more us and I don’t think there ever was.
I still wear your shirt. It doesn’t smell like you, in case you were curious.