Coffee/Roses

There were going to be roses
In the coffee in the morning,
And snowflakes lighting
Upon our window panes.

I was going to read books
By authors well-known
And the leaves of autumn
Would slowly fall down

In the morning it was
To be cold with breaths of fog
And in the afternoon's sun
I was to sit and sing.

But every moment now
We'll live together running
Not a silent second
But actions bright and torn.

Every thought desired
To sit in stained-glass light
Now there will be Christmas
Without silence, flames, and song

I would have shown you
Handfuls of birds
Thrown up in the sky
Now there will be dirt, glass, lye

Naples in winter.

I Want a Guitar

I want a guitar to travel
I want a guitar to free my feet
I want a guitar to take me there
I want a guitar to make me hurt.
In the evening I would go home
To a place unknown, take out
The guitar I know, and make
A strumming hum familiar.
The fingers of each hand
Would wander thoroughly each wire
And my voice would roam
Each soft, uncommon word.
Something gray becomes of
Thoughts that can't sing.
Music is not born it's made
Tomorrow I will go to different
Lands on it. make a boat of it.
And go.

I want a guitar to travel

...

The world was a modern, unterrifying place until the accident.
After that date, everything changed. She changed. No more pretty trees, no more stars that shone high up in the sky. Everything was askew.
Before the accident she hadn't wanted anything. After, she wanted everything she couldn't have. She couldn't have much.
The world became one of wanting, wanting, wanting.
After the accident everything had changed.
A world of daisies became a world of primordial, insurmountable mysteries. A whole series of evil conundrums opening up every day. Normal. Ha.
Everything had changed. She had changed. The world wasn't the same, it didn't look the same. They weren't the same eyes anymore - the viewpoint had skewed.
The world had gotten in a terrible accident.

Counting

Counting

Growing golden on the hours of love
Mead, sweet honey,
Flesh of my darling

Twice drunken on the liquor
Of his lips, the valor of his
Tongue

Thrice fainted on the shores
Of his embrace
Tight around my waist

Four times drowned in the
Seas of his eyes
Four times lost in the
Waters of his soul

Five days pass like hours
Dance by like falling flowers
The molten sand of our time
Winds together; glass now flaming

Six months approach
Beckoning, betraying
How I long to dive far towards them
Through the dark I’ll find him

Seven times seven
Times seven my love grows;
Seas of time,
Glassy waters and stormy troughs

Pilot

Pilot by the North Star
Of my soul and yours together

Pilot through the dark, dark water.

Sail down the blackest Styx
Know my burning soul will guide you in the darkness

With the thought of you in my eyes
Monsters pass me by

I hold you in the palm of my soul
The core of my heart

In the tired world, slowly graying
My golden world enfolds you, living

May the starlight glowing through my eyes
spread out a milky path before you

The rockery of seafloor far below you
Is lit and covered by my soul

And through all pain and passion that you harbor
I will join you though you least may know

Market Day

Night Set on the Ocean

Coasting

Vitamins

There was a heart-stopping pause.
She thought in that instant, that, oddly, she was so extraordinarily wonderful
And then she died.

They didn't discuss the aftermath, but they thought daily of her.
They didn't see the fallout.
She tiredly, tiredly went on.

On and on, spinning a devil's web of prose in her head -
They caught her like gawping bear traps, ripping down to hard bone.
All the years of shielding herself from herself was ripped away with it.

There it was, that living, vulnerable heart. How she disdained it,
Beating wetly, pulsating wildly, pulsating without question
She wanted to scream. How could it go on and on that way, no attention?

She though she would, indeed, smoke a cigarette,
And putting it between her lips she nearly choked on her own sorrow.
How did that get there? Like a dirty sock in the middle of a coconut cake.

She knew who had been stepping on her cake, and she decided not to care.
She ignored her.
She sanitized her minds,

The clorox and the bleach of her imagination sweeping through,
Great swaths, her yellow gloves on her metaphorical hands, swabbing away the mess.
And it was messy. Blood everywhere. Blood from that bloody, bloody heart.

She wondered if she had really died at all.
She wondered if she could live
Her heart beat wildly, wildly.

ME/NY