caught in a meme

if i could tell you about my cl forays
i'd let you know of the woman who's looking
for a guy your age to take care of. preferably
needs a home and has some addiction she could feed.
she loves to cook.
instead i clamp down the urge to supply
you with different cigarettes, the need to question
  the ownership of the mix i smoke. you're off

in some well traveled city, in a mid rise suite
pasting together words in a way i envy without malice
and yes there should be a word for that , but admire
doesn't carry the requisite pain. i skim those phrases
looking for signs of recollection or remorse. the latter
exists in droves throughout all our writings.

i tend to flex my muscles at the wrong time,
arrive at the table after the candles are extinguished, apologising
once again for something i'll continue to do.
still, we enjoyed the time together didn't we?
and it makes sense you arrived this late given
the inherent tardiness we share. so i'm not whining
as such. interrogating, railing, piqued with softness abit
but not whining. when comfort food's on the menu
i'll eat it cold if there's any left.


late last season,   we wondered if we'd
make it past those dim short days into the wild
winds of spring. you held me, epic
in declaration, bristling with intention. now
tornadoes pepper the midwest,
the roads infuse  with glacier , flowers
 bloomed too early, drown. still i see beginnings
i see opportunity in the mud and slick and  straw.
what you see is the sky grayed over, wan sun lighting
tips of clouds you can barely make out but they sing
of summer , on ice, with a lemon twist sipped
by a red headed woman whose emerald eyes
make impossibilities your stuff of dreams.
how once you had that, you could never go back
how once back, you thought deserve
was the same thing as to have.
no wonder you couldn't sleep on the bare rubble
of my bed, the stacks of cracks filled with slack lack
and mandible mornings.  dissapointment dossiers,
i have a stack of them on my dais. let's
compare notes. fake the statistics till they tell
us what we want in three studies or less.
that's the kind of career to build in the twentyfirst century
ano dominea, and really, what more could you expect
when elegance and simplicity trump the complications
of a mandlebrot with broken syntax.


now the band is on its way. pinks peek from
hazy blue eyes, which close themselves
held in by the coming dark. there's an orange
cat curled up in the sink. he's been there all
day, with his paws over his eyes. ashes on the floor
remind me i'm a writer. you come in to talk
but i'm looking for the voice of my grreat grandmother
to hop into this mechanism and hold my hand.
i'm looking for the music that even syphillitic
philosphers understand make life livable.
alelujah, we sing. together as one.


now summer will have no shade
so it