lost format
-love as a three act play
if i could tell you
about my craigslist forays--
there's a woman's looking
for a guy your age
to take care of, preferably
homeless with an addiction
she could feed,she loves
to cook--
but i clamp down
the urge to supply you
with different or a need
to question ownership of the mix
i smoke. you're off
to 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 devour your succulent phrases
seeking recognition or remorse.flex
my muscles at the wrong time, arrive
at the table after the candles
are extinguished, apologize
for the future, again.
so when you arrive,late,i won't whine.
i will interrogate
and rail a bit, piqued
with the thorns of our shared sin.
but no whining.
comfort food's on the table .
it's cold .let's eat.
********(__)*******
late last season, we wondered if
we'd make it past those dim short days
into the wild winds of spring. you
were apocryphal declarations,
bristling with intention.
tornadoes pepper the midwest now.
roads, infused with glacier
and flowers,bloomed too early, drown.
still i see beginnings
i see opportunity in
mud and slick and straw.
what you see is sky grayed over,
wan sun lighting tips of clouds
barely made out
but they sing:
of iced summer with a lemon twist
sipped by a red-headed woman
whose emerald eyes make
impossibilities of your stuff of dreams.
how once you had that
you could never go back,
how once back
you thought deserve
was the same as to have.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!(__)oooooooooooooo
no wonder you couldn't sleep
on the bare rubble of my bed.
stacks of cracks filled with slack lack
and mandible mornings,
disappointment dossiers on the dais.
let's compare notes.
fake the statistics till they tell us
what we want in three studies or less.
elegance and simplicity trump the complications
of a mandlebrot with broken syntax.
the band is on its way. pinks peek
from hazy blue eyes,closing
on the coming dark.
there's an orange cat
curled up in the sink. he's
been there all day,
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 great-grandmother
to hop into this keyboard and hold my hand
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