day/weak/strong/week

the poetry in a still room
while the mind is full of motion

hammer head, brash moves
regret soiling the whitest sheets

alone, swallowing heat
sitting on a swing with a cigarette

sick punch of nausea
character shifts as fast as wind

catharsis comes slow
like stumbling home
on a moonlit cobbled street.

i paid my tithe last night

i drank the holy water -
a sweaty sort of baptism.
now i smell like smoke and
perfume (incense of choice).
every body's sacrifice marked by
orgin-less bruises,
painted purple in the dark.

my hands still flutter
with the feeling,
the memory of running
my palms up her thighs
and putting my faith in the sway of her hips

to lift
me up and up and up and up
out of my head
and into the world.

tears

she cried for me,
totally selfless because I'm afraid.
makes my heart hurt and
keeps me up when I should be sleep

I still can't believe that there were tears
that I almost didn't hear
but then I knew she cried for me
and when I asked her not to
and when she explained why

I knew that
she loved me
more than I ever had at that point
and that was just her being a
friend

How beautiful the tears, and it
makes me sad to think in that
moment I was unsure

I dream that I could have
somehow lifted her out of the
worry and calmed her
fears

but I am just me
and not powerful
even in my direct ventures.

I feel insane sometimes
because I dream we can
grow so beautifully
and simultaneously

and we'll be fed by her tears that she cried for me because of fear
and love.

exhale.

they were big sighs.
she told me not to,
as they made her nervous.
or something along those lines.
the case being - apparently - that my
unexplainable puffs during
moments of silence
were indicators of unease.
like something was
wrong.

i never told her they were
thoughts. the ones too big to
express, a heavy feeling
on my chest that i let loose
and sent spinning
in the air to dangle and float,
heady things that came
pitter pattering, landing on our
bodies, in our hair.

what's next

i don't really know what's going to happen,
after this act or this role
I left with the expectation to never come back
to have few days without excitement
and to consummate my youth
with mississippi river adventures
like the books I used to read.
I want to go out and make people love me
and realize I've not wasted my time
doing things i never planned

That's a weak point,
that's the bust the dumb idea
the ignorance I trust
to get me nowhere in a
specific amount of time
carrying nothing but my frustration
and my thoughts and leaving

I Call

The only think I can do is hope that she's at home.
I'm not there to sit and talk at that black white and confused
granite table,
or ride around in any car going anywhere with a zip code that starts
with a number less than seven.
I'm covering lots of ground just thinking of what she could be doing
where she could be, how she's doing

And Then I Call

I call because if I don't my mind will get away from me,
I'll cometo welcome a type of unfiltered worry that starts out terribly
but then ends in utter satisfaction in not caring at all
I'll know what happened and of COURSE it happened that way
because you
haven't changed
at all

And now I'm disappointed and it will be weeks before
I can bring myself to call again-
several hundred hours before I pick up
dial your number and say:
"hey kid, how's it going? have you moved back in with your parents yet?
No? Well, what are you going to do?"