[…the space between infinities…]

the masters of the universe
the mistresses of pain
the fortunes of the other folks
their houses down the lane

a passion for veracity
a cavalcade of fun
a phone call in the dead of night
to be the only one

an afternoon of pleasure spent
an instant on the way
an overarching sadness that
engulfs the everyday

a word or two that hides its face
the comfort we don't give
the space between infinities
where we choose not-to-live

the music of the hidden heart
that keeps in how it feels
the whitewash on the sepulcher
the tomb of our ideals

the aftershock the ambulance
the cold and bloody dawn
the moment after of all of it
the tv goes
back on

fourteen times

the story and the metastory

always, it’s about her
  and about her knowing it’s about her

so much kindness in her voice, arrogance
  only specious in intentional
  vacating of previously occupied
  territory ceded to the opposition

transactional analysis, used
  to good effect upon mountains of
  regret and underneath umbrellas of
  translucent rainbows

young life scrounged
  fourteen times by hotel maids
  who once served hot dogs to
  shy cabinetmakers and window-washers

 

lies, luscious lies –
  with the occasional truth
  thrown in for flavor

intersection of parabolic interests where
  cold indifference serves as a
  reliable guide

plain plastic platitudes sent
  seventy-six ways into
  walls of wanton

sensuality

at the margin bleak

a white powder day, the buzzards swarming in
circles above an inadequate dissonance

finding winter across bleak margin, and
a cross above frightened bushes huddled for warmth

it is a winter’s choice that must be made in every season:
to carry on, or be
carrion

simulacrum, memory

driven through the broken glass
broken by the driving wind
ghosts are standing by the lake
broken by the driving wind

simulacrum, memory
memories of what's to come
ghosts that shiver by the lake
memories of what's to come

shielded purpose, veiled intent
cold as death, and colder still
ghosts of time in times of ghosts
cold as death, and colder still

broken by the driving wind
frozen lake's inconstancy
ghosts that claim me for their own
simulacrum
memory

in soul of search mates

 


belonging.

the sad is search and
difficult with all of its
dramatics to turn oneself into a
prize it’s moral

acrobatics we love because
we love to love to need to feel
inside but all that ever was
and is is made of clove and

pride we string along our
platitudes we soon evince our
longing but souls are made of fragile
stuff and yearning for