trying to keep time itself from getting past me

these i found whilst perusing old wordpad files that i had tucked away some-old-where!

in a pile of left hearts

on my first peninsula
i'll lose my last beginning "one"
or at least for awhile

in a bed i'll have just met
i will become a swan and a dinner plate
standing side by side, or back to back

on top of a fault line
i'll feel an unmistakable itch
across my lifeline
the itch of the invisible movement
the fast lane on my palm

and i'm excited -
to accelerate along the coast
speed up like time
maybe if i go fast enough
i'll pass everything
---------

where does the time go?
i don't know, but it took my friends
and left a trail of loose ends
and blurry memories of firm beginnings
--------

an uncomfortable science

i'm not used to these sleeves
i should be, they've always been here
just covered

i'm not used to those crowds
my sweat seemed to shine
and attract attention

i'm not used to eye contact
but i'm used to the instant afterward -
looked over, then overlooked

i'm not used to his voice
part of me doesn't want to be
it was like a brand new, unwashed blanket
uncomfortable but comforting
awkward, but warm
and the morning came
it was pulled away and hidden-
-------

shy bodies

the hour before our brightest feels darkest
i think its a reminder
and the silver lining in that the cloud is deceiving
i think it's gray - the color of dying
surrounding the black - the color of death
reminders above us of how soon we'll sink below

i love red sunsets - the bleeding day - leaving again
off to disappoint another side
always siding with disappointment
always sighing in sympathy
well thats really just the moon - those sighs
and the wind never sounds pleased - always lazy
yet in a hurry - to take what it can

i wish upon a shooting star, the star is shooting glances - tired of doing favors
i wish upon a shining star - but the star is gone
its telegram has reached us
if we could read light, we would know...it wants to be left alone

some creator created craters on the moon
to keep us company, to smile, but the craters
we don't see make a frown
if it could turn on its own, the frown would be shown, it also wants to be alone

in reality our oceans are shallowly accepting the
moon's massages and hardly posing for him
in reality our oceans are shallow, we're accepting
the illusions made by our scales

if you couldn't tell, almost everything towers over us - night is just a shadow of the advancing
day is just the flashlight from the search
wind is just the exhale of the angry
life is just unjust, a list of lists and on and on
groups containing groups until infinity
nothing they consist of, but themselves...
-------
about three a.m.

three tables down, down at the diner
she sits so still, her stare so solid
her fixed sadness shows through
her attempted indifference
i can see her postition
without knowing her story
and as my 2 a.m. breakfast
lets go of its fever
my fork forms a river
on the dirty plastic
and my eyes form a niche
in her direction
a hole i dug with my stare
that i can't climb out of
a tale i dug from her hair -
frayed and her makeup - forced

"there were storms in her house"
i thought, "if there's a house at all."
"she's lost her love," i imagined
"he was handsome and kind."
"i'm sure she's worn and yellowed
like the newspaper clippings
that i'm sure are in her wallet, of this or that
obituary."
she just seems that way

"i'm sure this dim lit diner is her
haven, her escape
but her eyes can't escape
that unspeakable horror
she's seeing, i'm sure."

three tables down, down on her luck
i feel lucky by comparison

"i'm sure the lines
on her face can be read
as a map to her heart."

i thank whatever controls
wherever we are
in whatever can be conceived
of this speck, this Earth.

i thank my lazy breakfast,
sleeping in the cold
now beyond appetizing,
for being here

when he walks in she lights up
as if darkness didn't exist
when he gets to the table she jumps up
as if gravity was only imagined
when he hugs her she perks up
as if taunting all other emotions
when they walk out it's as if
their's is the only direction
when the door shuts i swear
i saw it wave

3 am, down at the diner
looking for someone new
to invent for

there's a couple o' couples
a group of 4
but mostly empty

there must be someone here
who's alone
---------

worm

my angles feel straight
my ankles feel weighted
i read about sores, survival and fraud but everything is just black on white
i remember when books would be directions on how to imagine; now they're just pamphlets on how to pretend
and i pretend like i'm sitting but i'm really weighed down by these dizzying feats
turning my head slightly spins my mind and i feel asleep or just woken up
but i won't sleep tonight, i'll entertain this notion...entertained throughout the night, heating the cushions and spreading them apart
maybe i'm dizzy because i'm surrounded by wasted words and wasted time.
whodunnits, bibles, poems, funnies, manuals, annuals, animals and science
most of them sitting, all of them aging, all soaked with words, most never drying, drying eyes seem so reluctant to find anymore, being found is just so much more...
well whatever the word, on the tip of my tongue or my mind or whatever controls me these days
let my eyes glaze
fanning the blaze
scoping the skies
feigning a gaze
---------

the romance projected onto a cloud and it made the kisses bend
it was like a car driving away and chasing it on foot
the exhaust remains and yet even more than that
----------

an unfinished incident (do they ever end?)

you said you'd be a stones throw away
but you skipped & skipped & skipped
on your reflection and it mimicked and
bounced off of you and the circles grew
as you slammed away from me

you said whatever's spent you throw away
but i didn't think in terms of money
so you spend & you spent & you spent
you spent you time like money
you threw it all away

i used to think you touching
but you grabbed
i used to hold back nothing
so you grabbed

i used to stand in one position
and watch that passing feeling
over & over & over again
it turns out it was circling me

the rope it held climbed up my legs
i stood still, appreciating the embrace...
---------

a red blur, shooting upward

ruby red
across the street, close call with cars, rubber joy bounce along
gutter splash
down the sidewalk, unconcious kicks, sopping joy, soars along
invisible ball
tease the curb, fleeting speed, forgotten toy inches along
corner
stilled by wall, motionless floor phantom, useless toy unseen too long
low eyes
wandering nomadic, spots lost treasure, priceless joy, free to love
ruby treasure
resting in high places, bouncing high into my heart, flawless toy, touched deeply

into the memory of a financially deprived mind, the sphere of satisfaction is born
and the ball says "it was well worth it becoming worn."
--------

me as alice

most walls have mirrors
and midspin i take a glance
i reflect on my reflection
and continue with the dizzying dance

i think, "i either look sad or out
of place, in a place that the vain mostly
inhabit." and then i break another one

i think "what is it?"
i think "is it a frown, or
is my reflection upside down?"
and at the thought i smirk
at my cleverness, but am
quickly wiped clean by one more

i see a revelation and the thought goes
"most occur in movement; sitting still is for
losing track of time." i act as if i have
time to lose but not enough to find it again
my eyes and ears absorb more envies and
i act content instead
----------

the puddles surround me
and as my jacket gets darker,
spot by spot, i pull it closer
i look up and the waters meet, the salty and the acid
and it stings. but what really stung?
---------

the art of unimportant shapes (KW)

the dynamic duo in their special smoke capes
their eyes turn and split for selective bystanders
the didactic do no harm, but stretch their arms
until the spongy mass lies motionless, pointing to their temple
my words, when spread this thin, leave hardly a taste
you're scraping the bottom of the jar, salivating and staining your wonderful shoes
my meanings ,when stretched so far, hardly protect the land
you're pulling for shade and shelter, but the insecuritears shoot you
my company contains a symphony of life, silently begging for eyes and ears to take a program, sit front row, i'll burn the curtain and show them in between the acts, behind the scenes, anything to lure anyone.
a dryspell has ruled, but my fingers are still rusted from the last storm.
the occasional scattered letters that might appear do nothing but shame.
i don't expect to unweld my chest and chin and to cut the stare from the floor, the dust and webs look so comfortable, and it's such a comfortable bend.
so to combat the edict of all the holders of my chains, i'll move this indecisive line along the white, leaving a trail of unimportant shapes, sputtering out inconsistancies, and preparing for silence or more.
----------

a broken wing
a mending king
a bending sword
a lenient lord
convenient stabs
healing scabs
peeling clots
rotting spots
spotting blood
covers rug
hovers by
lovers eyes
-------

KW2

the nostalgia and the entertainer
two pasts are driving away
the cast of the low budget tragedy
leaves the cardboard set in disarray

the absence smells strongly familiar
it's alive in my fingers and words
the death of it lives on
the pages stare blankly
and the rest of the comfort rests assured

millions of moments, frozen
millions of words, spoken
millions of miles from ease
thousands of seas and smiles
seperate the acts of inspiration
suspend the acts on ice.
---------

something

such a cold pillow had never struck my head so hard
such nice eyes, they'd never bled the tears as long
the shields had never forced down lazily hard
the heart trail had never beaten a path of diminishing length
the fingers had never missed a face to streak the
pen had never gone so dry and dropped so far
the webs wrapped the pen in its still, lifeless suspension
it is is mightier than the sword, but the swashbuckling pen has stilled, dulled to...
attempts at stabs are followed by failure...i can't believe in myself if the only thing about me that gave me hope has become invisible ink....everything from the past retreating faster everyday and nothing new to fill my satisfaction...some type of repression has fucked away any possible display of the only talent i ever saw in me...pause between writing, the flow is interrupted
forced, what flowed through me before is now squeezed and drying up the bone, then marrow and maybe my soul can dry on the paper with all my past smirks, suggestions and solaces. the noose is collecting dust for the criminal thoughts are running rampant, no longer trapped in the frozen hideousness of words that could hardly be read. my tries at creating something beautiful is now just as ugly as that through which it was told
my life has emptied exposing just what was there in the first place. the few things that keep it from imploding are still wary of the justified cruelty that i'm i'm foolishly capable of because stability has been skewed and incorrigible bickering has grown to cloudy heights
i swear i hear snickering behind the shouts behind those whispers and while it should turn on a muse it just confuses and i'm left twiddling my emotions, looking for a new way to disprove my increasing worthlessness
the dyslexic direction of my artistic integrity has been dislodged from the cave of my pride
honest pride has traveled away from me, no courtesy of a postcard or word of tretun, just a drawing of blanks to hang on my wall. i can't stand how white they are, i wish i could fling the mud, or stab the ink
i want to scratch off the white to reveal the vivid relief of the past success but i'm as weak and powerless as my words.
-----------

cans as currency

hey you, stranger with the grey hat
why do you wear it so low? over your eyebrows?
are you trying to hide your eyes?
or what they show
i understand. i'm much the same
but without a hat
lift it up, let the wind have it

well, grey eyes, i'm sadly surprised
i thought i had a partner in grime
but you're just as cold as all of them
as cold as your color
such an unkind contrast to your smoldering pipe

i shouldn't kick the dirt when i walk, it happens to always cover me
but i've learned that it's not so bad. certainly a subtle spice, but it's there

i had never thought of collecting leaves
when the ground's closer anyway, i don't blame him
the years can bend you, sad as it may be

come to think of it, leaves are more free than us all
the wind is an exciting navigator to have, and she's loyal
she's faithful to even the most carefree of attitudes
well anyway, the wind blows.

sometimes i wish my footsteps could be scattered like those treasures, and i see them that way
but when i open my eyes and look down, they're straight
again

but this time they're immersed in treasures. multi-colored and brittle. i fall in and wake up, and try to forget.
----------

for shelma and the residence inn

the soggy quilt was covered with wilted dreams
i wanted to carry it like a tune, but it got too heavy
so the seasons scattered over it and it sunk into the ground
and time won't hesitate to forget if you're not ready

i echoed like an empty can, like a nighttime ocean
but i was submerged in sorrow, originally borrowed
the owners had left, fleeing, leaving me with their things
and it'd grown through me, through bone, flesh and marrow

hey, i wasn't falling, i was rising towards the ground
well, i wasn't aging, i was growing up
i wasn't being tortured, but readied for what comes next
i wasn't getting angry, i've forgotten how

the third fourteenth of the second collection
i didn't think for a second that i'd be the first
and it seems like a million smiles later, a million tears
but she purifies them, and then quenches my thirst

my obsession with lists couldn't fulfill one that comes to mind
and i have no problem with holding hands at 47
or bickering, then laughing at 38
or shoulder pillows at 29
or hotel rooms at 19
--------

chatterhead

lick your finger, turn the page, lick your finger, turn the page, lick your finger, turn the page.
the pages turn your fingers black, and the wind blows them past without your help.
your frozen fingers turn grey. this fucking wind. whispers in your ear, now painful shouts.
blankets of snow never warm, baby blues begin to match
the rigid blues escape my lips. the waver stains the silence. well, the near silence. the wind.
---------

two grains awash

the spotlight was on the copies, the lens aimed at them
but i watched you and your fatigue
i watched the other end of the line that had pushed me in again

during the human train i was my hands and the bleachers were our thrones and that victor was so foreign
but the enemy tainted our territory and tore our dreamlike curtain
until they dissappeared and it was mended
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