090315A
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No one really remembers
the right ritual anymore,
having lost their words
in confusions of tongues,
tangled up in the ugliness
of misspent kisses,
having tried to find silence
and having failed.
There is hardly anyone left
and those who remain
bring their demons with them
always breaking in
to shattering each circle
of glass shard hopes and fears,
in all that kicking aside and about
of propped up barricade defenses.
Various unkind gestures
contribute to the interruptions
that break up the lines,
crumbling away remaining ideas,
into mass disarray,
as birds of prey rend and tear up
whatever they happen to find
that offered up a soft moment.
The intense shock
a resonance that is left behind,
as to the stripped down facts
that there was nothing autonomous,
and no one writes like that anymore,
having gone to the other side,
in complete surrender,
leaving the weak, the sick, and the lame.
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190315B
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There are those moments
when everything looks so ugly
and all mostly the same,
as if it was all mass produced
from the same repetitive use
of the same mold,
simply to make it seem useful.
Your mind was changed
long before I said anything
that you claimed had changed it.
That I changed your mind
being another common lie
that we tend to tell each other
with remarkable regularity.
You taught me not to make plans,
because plans always depend on someone
who will invariably destroy them,
leaving no residue to be investigated
for clues as to the real motives,
and only conspiracies to be treated
as common forms of paranoia.
If I carried any secrets,
I have long forgotten what they were,
and how they all played their part
in my being so completely betrayed,
having started to believe
that I would really have you
the way lovers claim that it always is.
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190315C
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There are no introductions,
of anyone who is actually permitted
to become anything much more
than a passing formality.
Nothing that is so very different,
from the goings and comings
that chance to happen
along any public sidewalk.
Everyone having a perfect right
to remain as alone as they are,
and as concerned about avoiding
the details of anyone else.
There are those who make claims
that it was all very different once
upon a time when they were young,
but hardly anyone believes them.
I only see you in the mirror
of your own eyes,
and I always feel so very lonely
in this land of the blind.
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190315D
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It is all the same sort of make believe,
if you give it half a chance,
to seem as if wishes can come as true,
as a row of cherries on a slot machine.
All the people you ever believed in,
proved you to be completely wrong,
in that and other types of faith,
leaving you stretched to the breaking.
Three sheets to the wind as they say,
but everything gets blown adrift,
and everyone was long washed away
where you once thought half a chance.
It is all the same as the lyrics
of a song that forever lacks a tune,
as you keep trying to pull things together
that then keep tearing you apart.
Nothing seems innocent anymore,
in the perpetual conspiracy of distractions,
including an excess of solitude
and the hands in your pockets.
The feeling of no real good,
having really come from anything
that would ever be acknowledged
and nothing really noteworthy.
The way love letters are often written
and in a shy moment never mailed,
realizing that every word is wrong
as to what they actually tried to say.
The object of potential affection,
having already been misplaced,
in some inappropriate moment,
leaving the chagrin of imagination.
You might have called and apologized
for being so very far away,
and for such a very long time,
but that too is merely another fantasy.
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