And So

And so I have to put aside

what fantasies I had.

And so I must try to silence the voice

in me that says “I’m yours.”

And so I must try to look at you

without blushing.

I must try to fight the urge to hold your hand,

to fawn over your smile,

to talk to you

simply because I like the way you talk.

I feel sad,

though I shouldn’t.

I haven’t lost anything,

not really.

I’ve gained a friend.

That’s something.

So,

I’m alright.

“Try Me”

Look at the toy on display.

Printed on its hand is a small button

that says “try me”.

“Try me”, isn’t that

a lovely phrase?

Many have tried this toy out-

have pressed the button

and seen it jolt to life like a heart,

whirring and singing,

its cheeks glowing red.

Go ahead! Try it!

Try it! as so many have before.

They love it, but buy the ones

on shelves, the ones in boxes.

So many have tried this toy,

drained its battery song

by song.

The crimson in its cheeks

is dimming, its life

is fading.

Its electric energy is being used up.

Soon it will be thrown away,

singing and glowing no more,

dead.

The Glass Heart

No less an organ

than the cardiac muscle

and sinew

of a regular human heart.

This heart dreamt.

It dreamt of love

in two hands, clasped;

in four eyes, twinkling;

in lips and words, whispered

and shouted,

and gestures and laughter

and memories

that have yet to be made.

Some of these dreams

turned into wishes,

and the wishes became so strong

they turned into prayers-

much like a chick

turns into a fledgling,

than spreads its wings

and flies.

The heart was shattered

by promises

that held as much weight

as stardust,

sweet words

that disguised the taste of cyanide,

and its own dreams

which it believed too much in

and had its natural rhythm disrupted by.

The shattered fragments

of the glass heart

belong to me.

They dig into my ribs

and say don’t believe

too strong

in dreams.

Upon First Sight

Dark fields

of coppery wires,

thin, curled, and soft as bedding in a cradle.

Mere glimpses

of patterned, colored cloth.

Stretches of cream

creating uniformity.

 

A red frog leaps in my belly.

Linen wash cloths dipped in warm water are pressed,

delicately, against my cheeks,

my neck.

The frog is kicking,

reaching for his wife

who is also jumping wildly,

pounding against my ribs.

 

I turn away

to simply breathe

and cool the frogs,

pull away from the linen.

 

I swallow,

then take the next step

toward you.

Radiance in January

Windless stillness,

silence.

Sunlight slices through

dense clumps of silver.

Light perforated

only by gray, almost transparent

shadows- long and thin

shadows of trees.

The earth is wearing out its

white play-clothes.

They have gravel stains,

dirt stains,

and the beating heart

of its grasses is turning

as it enters REM sleep.

Earth is dreaming of when

she will burst from the womb,

naked and beautiful,

and will grow its emerald hair

long.

And will decorate itself in jewels of color-

blossoms

and leaves.

By End of Day

By end of day we’ll be apart.

Our fingers and lips will slip away,

but you will linger in my heart,

and we shall meet again, another day.

Love Is a Double-Edged Sword

Love, friends, is

the real double-edged sword.

 

Human love can be absent

on one heart’s part

and thus be sweeter than a lie,

poisoning the other person.

 

Love is what can split a man

in two.

Love is what can cut a man deeply-

losing love, that is.

As humans

we look for love

in the in-sync beating of two hearts.

Which is why we are fools

who destroy

love.

 

But love

can be taken

and melted down

into plows,

and till the fields

so that buds may push

through and taste the air,

and blossom into strong stalks

and stand against wind and rain and storms.

Love is always there.

Even if the stalk is knocked down,

some seeds were shaken loose

and stuck in the fertile ground.

There they take root.

 

Love, dear friends,

is never a lost cause.

Lost in Translation

“Constantly talking isn’t necessarily communicating.” ~ Joel Barish (Jim Carrey), Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Let me honestly say,

love, I have no idea

what I am doing.

I monologue

because you let me.

That is a mistake.

I’d rather listen.

When I open my mouth

something honest and stupid

always pours out,

and I’m so critical

of everything I say and do

and you might be too,

but you won’t tell me-

your feelings get lost

because you’re letting me talk

and talk

and talk.

In Response to Dream Song 14

Life, friends, is boring

only to those who make it so.

To complain of a friend’s plights

and gripes, and then complain

of being bored

marks a hypocrite

who has lost his inner child

who would see the great sea flash

and the blue sky and its cottons yearn

and dream

not of fantasy worlds,

but of the wonders here,

in his life.

-In response to Dream Song 14 by John Berryman

Killing Time

We could join hands

and walk down to the pier.

Look back and see the city lights-

those glowing orbs of white, yellow, and amber.

Look at the water-

so dark at this time, like black velvet.

Feel the cold, wind

biting at the tip of your nose,

air charged with an aura of ice.

Our hands

a heat source, keeping numbness

from settling in our fingertips.

You or I could ask,

out loud or in our heads,

“what is it all for?”

It’s killing time.

That’s all.

But I would rather kill time

with you, than anyone else.

You’re worth more

than the meager minutes I’m given

to spend with you.