Scribbles

The Runner I Watched

You ran and I was watching you run
in circles around me
Like a runner in ecstasy of winning
an illusive trophy.

Warm it was, that night.

I said plenty I realize
it must have been too much
but not enough
clearly not enough.

This torture
of inexperience is not enough
We are left with none
to begin with.

Lune

If by reason
I need to follow
I would rather be mad.

To follow is to lose
the shine of darkness and
my world in its empty delight.

Velvety moss,
dipped in hollow verses
when I lay I look and imagine
to fly to cry.

To fly, I went
and held in my hands
the yellows, the blues, and the reds
until each dies into black abyss.

And looking down
eternal deaths in a maze
half in the glinting sun
the rest in the sight of lune.

 

Enemy Lines

That which is hidden is no longer as desirable
for the cloud that envelopes its existence
is grey and musty.

It lingers like blood in my veins
but easily forgotten
albeit inexorable to exist.

The lights caliginous
marred by uncertainty
and the dark a forced contentment.

A parting without recourse.

January

We walked on, to your old home
like it was not too long.
Up the elevator we listened
to the same old, same gold.
On the fourth we stepped out
to exactly how it was,
but your home, long gone.

White door, white walls,
the broken chair,
empty halls.

Down the elevator we listened
to the same old, same gold.
Read out what was written
on the wall, same old.

Out in the streets, looking up
the moonlight
Getting kissed, under the moon halo
in the moonlit night
we know we missed the mistle toe
But
Out in the streets, looking up
the moonlight
Getting kissed, under the moon halo
In the moonlit night
Missing the mistletoe was fine, it was all right.

Intoxicated

I am uneasy,
uneasy, uneasy.

Overwrought, synonymous.

My handsa re clammy.
My head is spinning
like a ballet dancer
in an unending act
still spinning and spinning
my spindly feet en pointe.

The note in octaves hammering
trembling lights, thundering lows.

Repeat, on loop, staggering
still spinning.

Trip

Cab, bus, black car, red truck,
buses, cars,
cabs,
trucks.

Lights. Signal lights.

The train.

Buses and cars.
Trucks and cabs.
A motorcycle.

Green. Orange. Red.
Green. Yellow. Red.

Stop. 60 seconds. Bottleneck.

Heavy traffic.

Castle Tristesse

The isolation is home
where voices are the fortress,
high and unequivocal.

The Eyes are witnesses
and to peruse their only object.

Hidden in recluse
borders the intermittent
a wont — to escape.

A soul fleeting against the wind
billowing graceless and out!
to return by eve

home and fortress.

Morning Whiles

It’s irrelevant when you do what you do.
I’m awake in the next room
writing, believing
all you are is who I want.

Words crashing in twilight,
in this calculating cold I continue to write,
the sirens in the quiet streets below your window
jarring my thoughts, irrelevant.

I will come as you go, and go as you leave.
Brushing against you going past
my mind is racing incomprehensible speeds
to figure out half your thoughts
                                      all your recklessness.

The lights flicker
a wonder the moon has not set.

A

Maybe I loved you
when the stars were different from tonight
they still shine
but not the same light
now faded and wandering
from yesterday’s dreaming.

You were there but never captured
in pictures long forgotten
around the round surrounding me.

I should have known you then
when I knew you when
like I know you now
under different skies, calmer seas.

Birds have flown,
the moon a thousand nights risen.

I gazed openly at your face
a maze, a treasure found in rains long dried
without a map to never tell.