170814A
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The garden grows August wild,
crowded with trumpets and long hair,
moments of intoxication,
whirling and dipping on a dance floor.
Reminders that everything ends too soon,
as dust and ashes sifted for memories,
all those tiny seeds of something
that never really chanced to grow.
Thin stems draped with outbursts of color,
gathered into whispering clusters
long limbs stretched out along the patched wall,
in hopes of getting over and across.
I despair as to how to find you,
so that we can escape across a wall.
I thought that you might come to take me
away from all the tedious places that I haunt.
I looked in my mail box for your invitation,
but your invitation never came to me,
among all those other types of offers,
sent to prisoners who pretend to be free.
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170814B
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Destiny is only a lie
that some people use
when they want to push over
something that you don't want
to have over-turned.
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170814C
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There is a bitterness
that comes with everything sweet.
The sweeter it tastes
the more bitterness it always brings.
I still love your sweetness,
and wish it could poison me
in ways I have never been poisoned,
simply to end the continual loneliness.
I crave the sort of pipe dream
that I would never want to awaken from,
doing away with all of the cruel details
that come after any other lingering.
I have become nothing but cravings,
made weary by tasteless things
that always chance to keep happening,
while cutting the tongue on sharp words.
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170814D
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I no longer understand women and men,
as that too has become far too difficult,
as to how anything is now supposed to be.
Every cut slices across another extreme
between the hard and the soft.
The softer you want it, the harder they make it,
in some strange war of oppositions.
As if that might carve your soul into portions
destined for various regions of heaven or hell,
depending on one or another type of similarity.
This is not the world of any pleasing
of either the devils or the angels.
They each have their own measures,
and all of them promise some sort of bliss
in the eternal games of pain and pleasures.
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200814A
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I always want to weep tears,
when I look at the stars in the sky,
because they are so long and far away.
They seem needles to the skin,
each leaving its little wound,
in another controlled reaction.
It is too much the same as everything
that one ever wants
and that one never has any of.
All the immunizations against hope,
that kept getting under the surface,
as if they provide a cure.
Too similar to endless goodbyes
in a world of searching for the hello
that one was forever looking for.
In a space of forever, you know,
there isn't one dream I could dream
that could never come true.
I might die any moment,
having known anything else,
that I wanted to come true.
You are so long and so far away,
and no more mine than they are,
being images in a night sky.
If I told you anything of that,
I might be accused of the usual blackmail,
that comes with any form of mortality.
The moments I dare not imagine,
might have changed your mind
if you had chosen their expression.
I will blame the positions of stars,
and how they injected me
with one or another dose of failure.
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