It's hard to let go and let love in,
when there are bits of dark and doubt hiding on the other side.
When you find someone, you open that door, by just a crack.
Caution weighs heavy on the scales, and trust is just a feather.
And really, is there anything scarier
than a door that opens just a crack?
I miss you.
I don't know who you are, or what you look like.
I put you together using memories and glue and belief filters.
Bit by bit. Expectation by expectation.
My long legged rubicon.
I created you, then the blueprint.
So I know they match, perfect fit.
The body lying beside me, that speaks to me, murmurs against me, breathes in the dark and loves me.
I do not know it.
We interact, we create, we share, we argue.
But this is not the you I know.
I miss the you that isn't here.
I met a zombie who looked just like you,
except her lips were cold and blue.
Her eyes were glassy, worn and dead.
A ragged hole was in her head.
Her teeth were splintered
her hair was gone,
and something moved under her thong.
Her limbs were broken and askew.
But otherwise I'd swear she's you!
You are chained in a dark cellar. The only things within your reach are a newborn infant, plastic utensils and two shotgun shells.
You can smell gasoline and hear the faint screams of a woman coming from somewhere above.
The baby is too young to even crawl. It is crying and trying to turn on its stomach without success.
the only light comes from your watch. it shuts off every six seconds and you have to press the button to turn it back on.
Someone in the darkness keeps whispering something about the seasons or the weather. Sometimes the voice seems close, sometimes distant.
There are no windows. The air is thick and you feel as if you are dying of thirst.
At some point, the baby manages to roll over and for the first time you can see the back of its head.
There is absolutely no hope of escape.
Now get some sleep.
The afternoons start to surrender, and the long night opens in previews. Under the bright kitchen lights, something stirs. Well fed and clean, small parts of us yearn for black and white, and the unwelcome touch of a cold strangers hand in the small hours.
Later, October becomes dull. Drab. It is that fifth spoonful of chocolate ice cream. You begin to lose the taste for it, but you keep plodding along, until the bowl is licked clean. The wind sips at the small provisions of joy left over from summer's carnival, leaving only grey and ice chips on your plate.
Near the end, moonlight rushes in like the tides and we begin to howl. The old tales, fully awake, are dark moths drawn to campfires, the best parts staying just beyond the orange light.
Time for one final dance to the music of creaky doors and footfalls on frost.
Always there is the false heat - the October afterbirth that lingers for days. The lake walkers swarm one last time, feigning ignorance. Defiant in t-shirts and shorts, they walk the paths with strollers and dogs, ignoring the soft scrapes and shuffling whispers of the dead, masquerading as fallen leaves. In the end, though, the dead always show their true selves.
The promise of blood spilt on schoolyard tarmac brings a taste of Bradbury and memory of dandelion wine.
A perfect morning.
Deep blue sky.
Soft sunshine.
Just the right amount of breeze.
The perfect mix of summer and fall.
The seasons embracing farewell.
The bland and now forgotten taste of normalcy.
Casual smiles and nods.
The world taking one last clean breath.
I sat down to write a poem,
about an old lady who was all alone.
But then I heard a creaking door
and thought about a blood stained floor.
Not fresh, but old, forgotten stains
washed out by a thousand rains.
I wondered about sacrifice
and screams that die in dark of night.
And then I thought, 'does death remember
the heat of life in late December?'
So in the end, I never did
sit down to write that poem.
Instead I left that poor old lady
in the dark and all alone.
Sunday
pancakes and coffee
on a veranda on a sunny morn
the smell of rain and the color yellow.
A drizzle of honey on warm familiar lips.
Summer, stay a while
sit beside me for a spell before you let me go.
the small hours are coming!
the small hours are coming!
they bring gifts-
doubts
failures
resolutions
what was the name of that movie?
with the guy who looks like Matt Daemon.
You know the one.
where whatshername sleeps with the other guy.
No Google, that's cheating.
But the small hours are here
and
no one is watching.
So Google.
