Murkier

“Do you not find it awkward that gravity is keeping us where we don’t want to be?”

“Maybe,” she said.

The coffee was murkier than usual.
I centered my cup on the placemat
fixed my hand into a Y
and drew a decorated dragon on the table with my fingertip.
Our eyes couldn’t bear to look at each other.

“This is not my idea of love,” I refuted.

She pushed her coffee away and tucked her head down crying.
A spoon was clenched firmly in the fist she used to cover her eyes.
I couldn’t console her.
Magnets don’t apologize for not attracting.
Besides, I’m weak enough to kiss her if she would put the spoon down.
It shined every time the tears jerked her around
like an oversized saber sharp enough to keep me at bay.
She’ll never put the spoon down.

King of Condescending

When spoke of
his lesser qualities were thrown upon
the same pyre as his achievements.

“My thrown reeks of treason and stale farts,” he spake.

A shallow grave for one born for servitude.

“Bring me the Fig Newtons and lead me to my deathbed.”
The King of Condescending was gout ridden, yet sovereign.

“Hold me high above waterfalls,” said he,
“and live bent in laughter.”

“To the cat my kingdom
to the jester my crown.”

An embellished ending to an undiscovered genius.

Song of an Affair

Lying inside the brazen shine of sun
head resting at the root of our favorite maple
feet crossed and waving under the clouds.

Argue the scent of new denim on warm days.

Shiny gold locks spill into the grass
and the driftwood fence will have no part of it.

When she didn’t look back
I forgot which way was up
then rested beside the tulips
for God knows how long.

We would gather beneath trees
to laugh at sensibility
play alchemist with our friendship
melting lust into love.

She rested her temple on my forearm
heavy with the life she had already created.
I whispered with certainty that
fear is merely a picture in the locket you wear beneath your sweater.

We bid a fond goodbye to the sunlit grass and trees
that played host to our love.
The summer moon whisked us into the dusk
serenaded by the orchards evening orchestra.

Written beneath each stone and on every leaf left to fall
is the memory of each day spent beneath the heavens.
Recorded deep within time’s heart
read only by the souls of us who remember.

Mirror

The crack in my mirror
weaves around my shoulder
through my heart.
Standing before the distorted reflection
waiting for blood to drip from the wound
holding still enough to imagine
long enough to remember.
Some mornings it runs through my face
and I feel beautiful
different than the people
driving past my window.
Beautiful like an extinguished cigarette
curled up and peaceful
having lived out its existence
with purpose.
When I am finally pulled from the mirror
I want to burn just long enough
to be beautiful
then curl up
peacefully.

Heralded

A man from the future approached me some time ago
to assure me that my efforts will not go unnoticed.
One man’s battle in a war of millions.
A small statue will be erected
in honor of my newly discovered accomplishments
one half of a century following my passing.

My journal and personal effects
displayed beneath museum glass.
My great-great grandchildren will shield the track lighting glare
to glimpse my insufferable handwriting in letters to former lovers.
They will notice how my R’s seem to give up as they enter the next letter
a vain attempt to convey my misery as a emotionally fatigued adult.

This can not be what I’ve lived for.
We all wish to be remembered
yet spend our lives remembering others.
I try to imagine George Washington being great
as soon as he checks his email or when that new reality TV show is over.
Perhaps I am fooling myself by imagining that from billions of slobs
I could be acknowledged now, let alone fifty years from now.

A bastard child will inevitably surface
the day my childhood street is renamed for me
brandishing proof of my poor humor choices
And excessive use of expletives with compound adverbs.
These realities will devalue my corpse in popularity polls
thus driving down auction prices of items I supposedly ate part of
rendering my action figures virtually unsalable.

I may have just talked myself down from greatness.

Our Masterpiece

In a stroke of genius
I fell asleep.

Colors unfolded from my eyelids
melting into a creamy dreamscape.

Times we had lived:
Floating in freshwater bliss
not letting a drop between us.
Searching for ancient treasures
in a dusty barn.
Sneaking into an empty dorm
to share spirits and souls.

We may never live like this again.
We may never love like this again.

The creamy dreamscape is hardening.
The colors a shade dull.

Perhaps the best thing to do with a masterpiece
is to paint over it.

Soulmating

Summer keeps us up late to bed
only when your hair webs my fingers
temptation a mere furrow of your brow.

You build words into flashlights
igniting my starving eyes
speaking volumes with a half smile.

I will bite you for every lie the mirror told you
keep your blonde strands up
my tongue melts salty at the nape.

Moving my hands from you leaves a momentary red glow
resounding proof of our chemistry
beneath a sun struggling to light us.

Lavender motions my nose south
followed by my eyes
that spread through thin denim
smothering your subtleties.

Delicate hands complement your resolution
draped in camisole skin still as cream
waging satin vanilla war with my senses.

Softest lips imaginable
their sweetness the dinner bell in my soul
adhered to mine in perfect harmony.

Rest your infinite dreams on my shoulder
I will ease your existence
moving hand-in-hand toward combustion.