Home.I’m trying to get back home To reverberant melodies amongst the soft glow Of Christmas lights, in February …It seems we can’t let go. I can’t let go. Cabinet doors swing open of their own accord No matter how I urge them to comply. Close off. Shut tight. I open to you, anyway. And your words have never led me astray. Your careful way. Yet, framed in the thresholds of our separate spaces We linger Late night smiles and urgent last-minute thoughts Before resting apart. And I haven’t felt like singing inHome.
Shower song“Laughin’ and cryin, You know it’s the same release” Insists Joni Mitchell over my tinny laptop speakers but My heaving shower sobs seemed endless this morning And brought me no relief Only loss of breath and a rock in my stomach not dissipated until Jersey girl’s harsh laugh and crass comments over Wendy’s vanilla frosties (and you know, they give you a straw, though they know this particular dairy treat is much too stubborn to yield to anything but a spoon)Shower song
The stormWe are. And always have been akin to a storm. Rolling clouds of indecision Thunderous claps of aching screams: “no, but I don’t want to leave.” lightning blazes memories scorching across my consciousness, fresh as the day they were made, and I can see, unmistakably, the extremes of you and I. Many times I’ve held my heart in my hands, so fragile and unmistakably yours, blinding sheets of rain stripping me of all dignity, and you have just stood there. And of course there have beenThe storm
Streaks of sun, pushing their way through the mess &n
colorblindremember that night when you said memories were exploding inside like splatters ofcolorblind
paint on canvas liquefied aquamarine 5th grade tire swing pushing higher and higher until your stomach spins and all you can see are the periwinkle and eggshell swirls of sky and all you can feel is burnt sienna or cerulean or any one of those bizarrely named crayola colors like macaroni and cheese or tumbleweed or purple mountain majesty and you say you can feel my harsh neon yellow over the miles of phone line and I’m sorry I analyze, agonize, feel too much.
sometimes it’s as if my insi
streetlightghosti get off of work real late. and it’s just me and my ghost, walking home. and he’s not one for any kind of conversation, so instead i look at all the houses and wonder if people are asleep and if that’s when they’re happiest,streetlightghost
because when you dream you can fly sometimes, like wherever you want even and when you try to fly when you’re awake, but unbeknownst to yourself,
you end up captured
on old black and white films from the roaring twenties
with giant wings strapped to you arms and you jump a cliff and disaster strikes. and your eulogy is made by a
